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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29520825">Reforged</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepy_wrestler/pseuds/Heliopause%20Entertainments'>Heliopause Entertainments (sleepy_wrestler)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alien Mythology/Religion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arrogant Buffoonery, Cultural Differences, Eventual Romance, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Implied/Reference Alcohol Use, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mild Gore, Nongraphic Spider Legs, Nongraphic injuries, Reincarnation, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Slow Burn, Suggestive Themes, Swearing, Unreliable Narrator, oblivious Megatron, past trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:53:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>60,687</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29520825</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepy_wrestler/pseuds/Heliopause%20Entertainments</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rodimus is "mistaken" as the reincarnation of Solus Prime.</p><p>Tags will be updated as we go.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Megatron/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Solus Prime/Megatronus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>429</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>123</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The supposed ‘lap of honor,’ to which Rodimus had gotten Prowl to reluctantly agree, was intended to be a sort of last hurrah for the crew and the <em>Lost Light</em> before it would be decommissioned, Megatron would surrender to custody pending litigation, and everyone else would go their separate ways. A happy ending. For most involved anyway. In his own way, he saw impending judgment as his own happy ending. He was tired and ready to put the last of his unconquered demons to bed.</p><p>Although, one last trip wouldn’t hurt. A chance to make a few more good memories with friends and colleagues who had made commanding—’co-commanding’ his own thoughts interrupted—great, now he was doing it too. They had made co-commanding that flying madhouse so fulfilling, a pack of wild misfits that fit in together. Various destinations were chosen for sightseeing, but one stuck out as particularly interesting, one they were rapidly approaching. Velocity and Nautica had suggested it, in fact, thinking the crew would enjoy it. Funny, that they had submitted their suggestions separately but with almost identical wording. Rodimus had declared that the two were in ‘cahoots’ before stamping an approval on the destination.</p><p>The view from the bridge was filling at speed with the image of a large, metallic moon, twinkling in the combined light glinting off the metallic structures spider-webbing across the surface, the cool white dwarf sun of this system, and, of course, the moon’s host, a green-gold gas giant swirling with ancient storms. Crackles of lightning arced across the storm spirals and spinning auroras flashed at the poles like a pair of crowns. The moon was large enough to be a planet in its own right had it not been caught in the gravity well of the gas giant. To think that this was home to entire culture… <em>civilization</em> of Cybertronians untouched by the war that had consumed their motherland—the war he had started. Megatron hadn’t even needed to go to another universe to find them this time.</p><p>Despite having spent many months staring out of this huge window into the universe, Megatron had rarely taken the opportunity to simply <em>enjoy</em> that view. There had always been more pressing matters to attend to, but now, seated comfortably in the captain’s chair, with only perfunctory duties remaining to him, he could relax and merely take it all in for the sheer pleasure of it. A rare luxury at any point in his long life. Or… he would have allowed himself to absorb the picturesque scene, had he not caught sight of something ludicrously red flash and dash out of the corner of his left optic.</p><p>
  <em>Ah.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of course.</em>
</p><p>Rodimus was excited to see this planet—<em>moon</em>. It was <em>technically</em> a moon. He could practically hear Ultra Magnus—Minimus—preparing a pedantic presentation, along with an introduction to local cultural mores, to ensure they were all prepared for their trip. Yet Megatron still felt a strange, warm fondness at the thought of the predictable behavior, just as he felt it knowing that Rodimus was prancing about just outside of his vision like he did whenever something really caught his interest. It was… heartening to see him so happy, especially about the little things like a beautiful planet. Moon. Dammit.</p><p>“Alright, everybody! Welcome to Caminus! Former lost Cybertronian titan-based colony facing perpetual resource shortages, now founding member of self-styled Emperor Starscream’s book club for slimy politicians that calls itself the Council of Worlds.” There was a pause, like Rodimus had second thoughts about wording his supposedly inspiring sales pitch that way. Megatron turned to look at him and sure enough the speedster was holding his chin in thought. “Okay, so <em>maybe</em> that’s not the best way to sell it to <em>Lost Light</em> tourists. Let’s try that again.” He clapped his hands together as though he could erase his first not-quite-ready-for-a-brochure slogan.</p><p>Megatron rolled his eyes and heaved a tired, amused sigh. A regular occurrence on this silly ship, especially when both captains were in the same room for any length of time. Meanwhile Rodimus cleared his vocalizer with a cough before pointing proudly at the viewscreen, now showing a much closer image of the populated moon. <em>Moon!</em> Not planet.</p><p>“Take two. Welcome to Caminus! Home of Camiens, a funky fire religion, swords for days, <em>avant-garde</em> art, other super awesome stuff, and us for the next few days.”</p><p>Well, it was <em>better</em>, but not still not <em>good</em> exactly…. Certainly a solid attempt, though ‘funky fire faith’ would have been a more satisfying alliteration. It was good <em>enough</em>.</p><p>Something felt strange about Megatron’s face, he noticed as he sat there. Relaxed and pulled in an odd direction—Smiling? Why was he <em>smiling</em>? Giving his head a good shake, he forced a bemused expression to return while he watched Rodimus wrestle with remembering how to actually make port now that they had arrived.</p><p>“Slag, we still need landing permissions.” A golden palm slapped a handsome—this was an <em>objective fact</em>, not his <em>personal opinion</em>—white faceplate, perhaps a bit harder than necessary, in irritation at having forgotten something so basic. Sometimes Rodimus was too hard on himself. It was a trivial matter after all and easy enough to forget in the excitement of a final trip. Yet, of course, Rodimus would solve the issue on his own as he usually did these days, the brief moment of embarrassment quickly shoved under the proverbial rug. He could handle things like this and so now Megatron wasn’t sure why Rodimus insisted that he needed the old poet around to assist.</p><p>“Crankcase, could you hail them, buddy?” See? Problem solved.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>"Mech" is being used neutrally to simply refer to a mechanical person.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Putting the ship down in the middle of the night, Megatron had expected they would be dealing with tired, low-ranking officials who had the misfortune of working the night shift. He had <em>not</em> expected to see a slender mech in fiery regalia accompanied by an entourage of six with matching paint schemes. Some sort of uniform, he presumed. He knew little of Camien customs, only what was shared by the few who had joined the <em>Lost Light’s</em> crew. None of that really translated into being prepared for greetings from influential government officials standing on the landing pad with lanterns to illuminate the dark, especially since all they really needed was to fulfill any necessary border customs requirements to actually allow the crew to disembark. </p><p>That was all. Nothing more, nothing less. </p><p>This was to be a short-stay, not a diplomatic mission. Besides, who in their right mind would send <em>either</em> captain of their flying <em>asylum</em> as a diplomatic envoy. Rodimus could be as polite as a punch to the face and Megatron, despite his efforts, had not yet shed the burden of sin. Not yet. He, to an untold many, would likely be seen as a threat, a promise of death and violence. Then again, maybe the Camiens, in their millions of years of isolation, had not yet learned to fear him from reputation alone.</p><p>And they <em>had</em> called ahead with their crew manifest to say they would be coming. If any objections to their visit were to be had—perfectly understandably, of course—<em>surely</em> they would have heard already. Though they probably should have also apologized and paid in advance for any property damage that might happen, most likely caused by Whirl. It wouldn't have been the first place they'd visited on their travels that had banned Whirl specifically if he ended up starting something on Caminus.</p><p>Most of the command crew had exited the vessel first in order to secure any final permissions. Strictly, only one member of command really needed to go, but Rodimus had put up a fuss about who got to go. So they all did, Rodimus bounding down the dimly lit ramp—if they had more time with the ship, Megatron would have suggested replacing the lights for safety reasons—followed by the more cautious Ultra Magnus warning the energetic mech to slow down before he could trip. The loud <em>clank</em> noises of their steps on the ramp disturbed the quiet of night ahead of him. Megatron trailed behind, content to take his time while he still had some to spend. </p><p>The darkness was only punctuated with a few lights from the ship and the lanterns of their welcoming party. The buildings, now that the sun had set on this side of the world, were mostly gray and black, merging into the shadows, with very few lights shining in windows. Perhaps the Camiens tended to not be as active at night, a cultural response to energy shortages. It was almost a shame Minimus had not gotten to give that presentation he’d prepared after Whirl had “accidentally” broken the projector in the auditorium where they had previously held classes. Minimus, now wearing his armor to greet their hosts in hopes of leveraging its recognizability, had been so disappointed after all of the effort he went to. Maybe, Megatron thought, he could take a little time later to ask his friend for the slides to read through.</p><p>By the time Megatron had finally gotten to the bottom of the ramp, Rodimus had already gotten within range of the Camien delegation, sticking an excited hand out in a great assumption of what was the culturally appropriate greeting. One day some alien was going to get upset with that firebrand and lop that hand clean off, he thought bitterly. Honestly, Megatron was surprised Rodimus wasn’t already behind several ‘diplomatic incidents.’</p><p>“Rodimus, don’t—” Ultra Magnus tried. He really did. Perhaps it was lucky that, whoever this lavishly dressed official was, they seemed to be of a gracious nature, as they smiled and ignored that outstretched hand.</p><p>"Welcome to humble Caminus, Rodimus Prime.” The grin on their face was too wide, too warm for a stranger. In the daytime, perhaps that expression could be read as kindly, but the stark angles cast in the flickering lantern light gave an altogether more worrisome impression to the older captain. </p><p>Though the expression certainly matched the angular and sharp aesthetic of their ornately painted kibble and regalia. Blade-like white-gold spikes with red and gold pauldron embellishments sprung from their shoulders, but from this distance and in this light, he wasn't exactly certain if that was kibble or part of the garb. Everything about their frame was narrow and sharp. A cape of some deep color, maybe crimson, maybe burgundy, fell from their shoulders to the ground. In their right hand they held some sort of staff, clearly ceremonial in purpose. That, combined with their proud, yet at ease stance, told him that this person was clearly of some high rank, possibly some kind of cleric. </p><p>"No, <em>no, <strong>no</strong></em>, I—" Rodimus took a quick step back, nearly bumping into Ultra Magnus's leg with his shoulder in the process, palms out in front of himself, as though he was deathly allergic to the title he briefly held. "I'm not anymore. Just Rodimus. No 'Prime,' thanks but no thanks. I'm not—"</p><p>"One doesn't stop being a Prime just because the Matrix of Leadership has parted your company." The strange dignitary continued to smile. Something about it was hollow, warm and yet entirely uninviting. Their left hand joined the right on the shaft of the staff as they leaned a little more weight onto it. "There's no need to be... so humble."</p><p><em>Humble?</em> As Megatron finally joined an exasperated Ultra Magnus and confused Rodimus, he couldn't hold back a disbelieving scoff. 'Rodimus' and 'humble' had no business being in the same sentence. <em>Preposterous.</em> This mech was clearly trying to sell them something. However, not knowing this person's identity also did them no favors in his estimation of their intentions. </p><p>"Though it seems you're <em>well aware</em> of my colleague, I'm afraid that we haven't had the pleasure of knowing who you are." He crossed his arms, unintentionally looming over Rodimus' other shoulder like a shadow. This caused the unknown mech to finally spare him a glance. They'd been so <em>fixated</em> on Rodimus that he simply hadn't been worth to the bother to notice.</p><p>Despite his thinly-veiled comment about the rudeness of this person's behavior, he felt no need to introduce neither himself nor Ultra Magnus. If they knew Rodimus, they most likely knew the large mechs at his back. Besides, Megatron wasn't above a little reciprocal impertinence, even if he could tell Ultra Magnus was biting his lip beside him to stop from blurting something out. The poor thing just couldn't help himself sometimes.</p><p>"I am the Mistress of Flame and current Camien delegate to the Council of Worlds." <em>Great,</em> he thought, <em>another hierophant who lives solely by title.</em> Just what they needed. Though, unless Megatron was mistaken, he'd been right about her being a cleric of some kind. Probably, at least given Rodimus' earlier comments about a 'funky fire religion.'</p><p>"And <em>these</em>," she continued, gesturing with an elegant wave of her hand to the sextet of bots accompanying her, brandishing their lanterns, "are my Torchbearers."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For a culture that reveres fire and heat, the lighting in the dining area—it was too opulent to call a "canteen" or a "mess hall" and Megatron was certain their hostess would be sorely offended should he refer to their location by either term—was rather dim. This was probably, again, a cultural adaptation. He didn't care for it. It was difficult to make out the surroundings and keep alert for threats lurking in the shadows amidst the soft, distracting clink of cups on the table. The image of a white and red wing flashed in his mind. <em>No.</em> He shook his head, hoping no one noticed that he'd been scowling unnecessarily for the past few minutes. It also didn't help that the dark made the expansive room seem cramped, claustrophobic, like stone and soil crowding in. Nothing about this sat right with him. </p><p>Luckily their host seemed to think him simply an accessory to Rodimus, invited along as a courtesy to the guest she <em>really</em> had wanted to meet. The Mistress of Flame had been paying Megatron little notice except from the occasional sidelong glance, as though she needed to be sure he had not moved or otherwise disappeared into the night. It was impossible to blame her, given what she had likely heard from her contemporaries in the Council of Worlds. His reputation tended to be... <em>off-putting</em>, to word it politely. Given her position in the Council of Worlds, it would be idiotic to assume she didn’t know. She worked with <em>Starscream</em>, for void’s sake.</p><p>Besides, he didn't <em>need</em> to be so on edge anymore. </p><p>There was simply no need. </p><p>Starscream was far away on their homeworld, playing dress-up as the emperor of what was <em>nominally</em> a republic. Overlord had given up on chasing him, finding him no longer worth the effort. The members of the DJD have been destroyed. Getaway and the other mutineers no longer posed a threat. Megatron wasn't dug into a hole in the ground that could collapse on him at any time. The biggest threat in the room was, ideally, himself. Though he was <em>loath</em> to underestimate the Camiens. At least Rodimus was there nearby. Somehow that was comforting, <em>calming</em>….</p><p>Another risk was whatever social missteps Rodimus could make that might lead to some cultural confusion, but that was hardly life-threatening. At worse they would be embarrassed and asked to never return. Then again the Camien reverence towards Primes probably provided quite a bit of leeway should the brash fool commit a <em>faux pas</em>.</p><p>The low table also did him personally no favors. They were seated on the ground in order to actually reach anything. This would certainly lead to complaints from some of Megatron's more fatigued joints. It's what he probably deserved for being so rough on every single frame he'd ever had. Just another consequence of not taking care of himself and escaping medical care as soon as he was on his feet again. He could already feel his knees start to ache, mostly in the endoskeleton underneath the plate and hydraulics. </p><p>At least in the dim light, the small portions of fuel that were served glowed all the more brightly. Small cups of the brightest blue were brought by as empty ones, dead and dark, were taken away. Not even drops remained, thanks to the special machining of the cups themselves. Perhaps these cups and the serving style were another adaptation, to assist with making sure only what was needed was consumed. Maybe. That was just a guess. He was tempted to ask, but there was a chance that would come across as impertinent. </p><p>Honestly, he'd hardly get a word in edgewise with Rodimus regaling the Mistress of Flame with … <em>embellished</em> recounts of adventure since the <em>Lost Light</em> first launched. Instead, he sat quietly, switching between carefully eyeing the minimal amount of fuel in his current cup and watching Rodimus animatedly describe where they've been. His co-captain’s arms were everywhere in the air, gesticulating like a madman. At least he was enjoying himself. Furthermore, since he’d returned to his original, outlandish paint job, he was much more readily visible, that much easier to see… so Megatron could dodge a miscalculated wave of the arm that nearly got him in the face for the fifteenth time in the last hour. A small price to pay for the sound a familiar, reassuring voice. He'd missed that little bastard's... <em>loquaciousness</em> during his centuries trapped in another universe.</p><p>Occasionally, of course, a detail was <em>too</em> far-fetched, <em>too</em> removed from reality that, no matter the cost to theatrics, he had to say <em>something</em>. That wasn't often though as given what their crew has suffered and overcome, there was hardly a way to even begin to be hyperbolic about some of it.</p><p>“And then their engine went <em>KABOOM</em>! Shrapnel absolutely <em>everywhere</em>, exploding on impact! I bet they were picking scrap out of their seams for <em>months</em>."</p><p>"Rodimus, there's no need to <em>exaggerate</em>." Megatron leaned over slightly and put a tired, firm hand on the red mech's upper arm. "There weren't <em>nearly</em> that many explosions." He gave the arm another gentle pat before leaning back away, not even considering how that gesture might have been taken by anyone from off-ship.</p><p>The Torchbearers mostly stood by the entrances with lanterns aloft to indicate passages like beacons, save for the one standing just behind where the Mistress of Flame sat. This one had given him a strange look when he had first moved, perhaps just as suspicious of him as he was of them. They leaned down to their mistress and whispered something for her alone to hear. That hollow smile widened as the Torchbearer straightened up once more, the light from their lantern bouncing with the motion. </p><p>"C'mon, Megs, don't be so boring. It's <em>my</em> story and I can tell it with however many explosions I think make it sound more <em>awesome</em>." There was no helping it, he supposed, sighing as Rodimus fixed him with a reproachful pout. "Besides, <em>you</em> weren't even there that time. You were holed up on the ship with all of that pacifism stuff."</p><p>"You're sacrificing truth for grandiosity again."</p><p>"Can you just <em>chill</em>?" A comment usually reserved for Drift, who was, in point of fact, usually quite calm, but could be rather... <em>intense</em>. Megatron was <em>nothing</em> like that. Not at all. No.</p><p>"Frankly, at this moment, I am being very '<em>chill</em>'." Weaponized air quotes had become a common feature of their discussions. All the same... "Very well." He slowly shook his head, relenting before draining the rest of the fuel in his current cup. The cup was set back down on the table with a soft <em>clack</em>. </p><p>There was no winning this. </p><p>Besides, he could do without having to see the frown, even if he was <em>obviously right</em>. Rodimus had little idea of <em>just</em> how much he was allowed to get away with these days. When Megatron had first been shunted to the <em>Lost Light</em>, he had pushed back harder whenever Rodimus picked a fight, no matter how petty. Now there was just... less need. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe he could ask their hostess to smile a little less knowingly.</p><p> The next round of fuel was set in front of them on the table. Appetite ruined by the <em>perspicacious</em> face the Mistress of Flame was making, Megatron took his own serving and set it next to Rodimus', a silent sign for him to take it instead.</p><p>A polite but demanding cough sounded from across the table.</p><p>"As <em>riveting</em> as the tales of your adventures are, Rodimus Prime, <em>I</em> might have a tale that would interest you," she began, tacking "and your <em>companion</em>" on at the end as an afterthought. <em>Delightful.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Liberties have been taken with the origin of the Matrix of Leadership, the content of mythological tales, and so on. There will be more details regarding the actual myths themselves later on.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"As <strong>riveting</strong> as the tales of your adventures are, Rodimus Prime, <strong>I</strong> might have a tale that would interest you... and your <strong>companion</strong>."</em>
</p><p>Worrying. That's what that was. One of Megatron's optics widened in doubt as he waited for the Mistress of Flame to spin whatever tale she felt obligated to share. Maybe they'd learn something or maybe Rodimus would be bored to sleep. Maybe he'd actually sleep on time for once instead of staying up so late into the night constantly.</p><p>Rodimus, meanwhile, leaned forward over the low table in front of them, elbows propping himself up. Whatever it was about the promise of a tale had <em>certainly</em> piqued his interest, despite the fact that she had addressed the younger captain with a title he rather disliked. "Loathed" was, perhaps, far too strong a word. "Feared" might have been more accurate with how he usually jumped away from it. Was he just too curious to care this time?</p><p>"Oh, yeah? Whatcha got?"</p><p>It had better be good because Megatron didn't want to have to hear complaints about it later if her story failed to live up to expectations, combined with the indignity of repeated usage of an unwanted title. The situation wasn't helped by the fact that they had landed the ship after sundown, adding to any weariness.</p><p>"Have you ever heard of Solus Prime?" she asked, tapping the tips of her fingers lightly on the surface of the table.</p><p>Not a name that came up too terribly often in lore back home. They more heard the incredibly… <em>garnished</em> tales of the Guiding Hand, a competing mythos. Though the supposed Thirteen Primes created by Primus weren’t unheard of. That cosmology was, of course, the origin of the name he himself had been onlined with, the expanded form of which he’d only ever used as a gladiator.</p><p>"The name kinda sorta rings a bell, yeah." There was a thoughtful silence at his side, broken eventually only by: "Why?"</p><p>"I know certain faith traditions are a little... different on Cybertron, but I believe you must have heard some of the original Thirteen Primes." </p><p>Rodimus nodded noncommittally with a shrug. There were a few tales that survived, yes, but they were incredibly fragmented. What remained was not exactly the sort of thing to serve more than the occasional metaphor or for appellative use. Then again, perhaps more survived here, though surely interpreted and reinterpreted through information creep. </p><p>"Solus Prime was foremost among them, a god among ancient gods. She was an artist of the forge, the source of many relics, including that Matrix of Leadership you used to carry with you." <em>Gods?</em> Leaders of ancient, mythological tribes long-forgotten matched more with what he’d been taught, but <em>gods</em>? Primes had always been, rather unfortunately, revered on Cybertron but not usually <em>deified</em> exactly. This was not a precedent Megatron cared for as he watched the Mistress of Flame punctuate her retelling with a dramatic wave of her arm, hand still delicately holding a small, glowing cup of fuel. He tried to surreptitiously glance to the side without moving his head, curious to see how Rodimus was taking this. His co-captain was <em>just</em> out of his periphery. </p><p>"Camiens revere <em>her</em> above all the others. In fact, we believe that every Camien carries a piece of her spark with them in their own. After all, the sacred titan that brought our people here so long ago, Caminus was her chosen servant." Ah, yes, that… colony titan. What had become of him exactly? In the past several years—well, excluding his centuries outside of <em>this</em> particular reality—he had seen more than enough titans to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were real, powerful, and held a great many secrets. Their very existence hinted at truths long lost to time. Rodimus had more experience with them though, having found an innumerable army of their husks on Luna 1.</p><p>"Legends say that she was... creative and vibrant, kind and trusting, a leader to those who chose to follow her example. Interesting that you should remind me quite a bit of her." Now <em>that</em> bit was quite intriguing but also really only added to his suspicions. One of his optics widened in doubt. These… supposed attributes of some fictitious ancient “god” were shared by the red and gold mech at his side, but they weren’t exactly rare. Sure, Rodimus had them in spades, but the Mistress of Flame couldn’t know that. She’d only <em>just</em> met him a mere few hours prior and rumors of their adventures before their arrival were just that: rumors. It wasn’t as though they were really <em>believable</em>, no matter how true. </p><p>Furthermore, such praise would only inflate Rodimus’ ego and there was barely room as it was for the current size.</p><p>“Oh? <em>Really</em>.” <em>Dammit.</em> Finally, turning his head, Megatron could see Rodimus lean even further on the table to support his face on his hands, elbows nearly knocking aside the two small cups of fuel that had been waiting for him this entire time. He instinctively reached out a hand to stabilize the glassware, but it turned out there was no need. With a sigh, he drew his arm back slightly, letting it rest on the table near that closest careless elbow. “That’s <em>incredibly</em> flattering, so you’ll <em>have</em> to tell me more.”</p><p>They would be here all night at this rate.</p><hr/><p>What felt like ages, but was likely closer to an hour, had passed before the Mistress of Flame finished ‘regaling’ them with more legends of Solus Prime. There were certain areas of her supposed life that the priestess seemed to be avoiding, either by not mentioning them or leaving them incredibly vague. Particularly suspect was anything that regarded the <em>end</em> of this deity’s life. Anything that could be particularly flattering to Rodimus as well seemed to get quite the emphasis. </p><p>This priestess was up to something. Megatron was sure of it.</p><p>The Mistress of Flame set her long-since empty drinking vessel on the table. The two in front of Rodimus had been ignored, including the one Megatron had set aside for him. The younger captain must have forgotten them in his excitement for the story. It was a miracle that his focus had been captured for such a long stretch. </p><p>"Now I must apologize, Rodimus Prime, for it seems we have made an error in preparing for your visit." Their hostess raised a hand towards one of her Torchbearers, one of the ones lurking by the entrance, gesturing for them to approach the table. </p><p>"Uh, what do you mean by 'error'?" Rodimus seemed confused, a sentiment Megatron mirrored. The red mech frowned, scrunching up his nose like he <em>finally</em> realized the situation was suspicious. How could there be an error like that? They had already booked habsuites with a local venue after they'd called ahead and gotten permission to land. They hadn't received word of any cancellations.</p><p>"We had prepared separate accommodations for you and your... <em>auspiciously</em> named consort-protector."</p><p>"My <em>what</em>?" The young captain's eyes widened like saucers. It was difficult to tell if he was offended or merely baffled from what Megatron could see out the corner of his vision, too busy indignantly leaning back away from the table himself like he’d just taken a blaster shot to the dignity, one palm on his chest in affront.</p><p>"Your consort-protector," their hostess repeated simply, as though there was nothing potentially objectionable about her words. </p><p>The summoned Torchbearer at last reached their mistress' side. They stood stock still, awaiting instructions as the lantern swayed in their grasp, reshaping the dancing shadows into new ghosts.</p><p>Megatron cleared his vocalizer with a cough. No matter the thoughts that came to him unbidden in quiet moments, the priestess was making a <em>highly inappropriate</em> assumption! He could feel his face warm, and in a brighter light, he was certain his face would have been quite reminiscent of Cyclonus’ paint. "We are <em>coll</em>—"</p><p>"He's even armed at a leisurely meal." Would <em>no one</em> in this room let him speak? He should have a say in this! She wasn't even addressing him <em>directly</em>. Their Camien hostess was talking about him as though he weren't even present. Sure, he was no Prime, but as mechs with a right to dignity, they were all equals at this table.</p><p>When his initial offense at being ignored waned, something else clicked in his mind.</p><p><em>Oh.</em> </p><p>The surgical kit on his arm. <em>That</em> must be the source of confusion. It looked quite reminiscent of his old cannon, especially in the dark. Out of habit, Megatron hadn't removed it when they sat down to fuel. Perhaps she’d seen a similar weapon before. He opened his mouth to offer a correction that this was a tool for healing, bringing life and not death, but Rodimus interrupted before he could.</p><p>"He's just like that, a bit paranoid." Rude, but unfortunately true. Still, Rodimus should have said something! <em>Speak up</em>, he thought. He was never the sort to hold his tongue when he thought someone was wrong. Why now? This mistake needed to be rectified <em>immediately</em>.</p><p>"If you are willing to grant us a measure of your patience, we will have an appropriate accommodation prepared for your stay. We were <em>impious</em> in thinking an adventuring Prime would have no committed companion."</p><p>“No, separate accommodations are most appr—” His refusal was cut off with a sharp elbow to the vents on his waist.</p><p>"That's cool. We can wait. Can’t we, babe?" This was it. This would be how he died. Of embarrassment. On a foreign planet—<em>Moon!</em> Megatron simply held his face in his hands and despondently nodded.</p><p>The Mistress of Flame whispered something to the summoned Torchbearer before they hurried off through the entrance, presumably to carry out the orders to “correct the error.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Standing in the doorway of the guest suite they’d been dropped off at, Megatron looked to Rodimus's eyes almost like he wished he had gone back to the ship to help Drift with disembarking the crew instead of sending Ultra Magnus to do it. They hadn't even been cursorily waved through customs, so much as given a carte blanche to get off the boat. Risky, given that Rodimus knew most of what was laying around in Brainstorm's lab and at least half of Perceptor's “important projects” would qualify as dangerous contraband if brought off-ship. Though, Rodimus supposed, that wasn’t exactly what was eating the old bastard this time.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, having spared no second thoughts about enjoying their lavish accommodations, Rodimus had practically thrown himself onto a squishy piece of furniture set low to the floor. It reminded him of a cross between a sofa and a floor cushion not unlike the ones that had been around the dining table earlier. He'd give Megatron plenty of time to articulate whatever complaint—more likely entire series of complaints that could be strung out into an entire… art piece of some kind—he surely had brewing under that bucket.</p>
<p>Besides, the phone in his subspace was buzzing. Humming to himself and idly kicking his feet in the air while he lounged on his front, he pulled the device out to answer it. Ah, good ol' Mags.</p>
<p>"Yellow?"</p>
<p>"Rodimus, would it <em>kill</em> you to answer normally?"</p>
<p>"Most likely. What's up, bro?"</p>
<p>"It looks as though two of our bookings were spontaneously cancelled last minute. The notifications went to the junk folder." Just like all of Starscream's messages. Rodimus was quite proud of all the time he spent messing with the spam filters. It wasn’t like Magnus didn’t regularly go through the junk folder anyway so if anything <em>really</em> important went there, it’d be found. Just like the booking cancellations. "We'll have to find some additional lodgings last minute—"</p>
<p>Rodimus scoffed and waved a hand dismissively even though Ultra Magnus couldn't see the gesture. "Already taken care of. Problem <em>solved</em> like no problem ever was before."</p>
<p>"… How so?"</p>
<p>"Always with the doubts, Mags! You should know me better by now. Never saw a situation I couldn't handle." He made a 'pshaw' noise into the microphone. All of that ego fluffing earlier was probably giving him an unearned boost, but why fight it when he could ride it?</p>
<p>"The local high priestess lady is putting Megs and me up in her house for the duration of our little vacay." He could practically <em>feel</em> Magnus biting back the urge to correct the grammar mistake. Void-damned Megatron outing his secret tool for distracting Magnus had ruined it.</p>
<p>"That's <em>awfully</em> convenient."</p>
<p>"Ain't it just?" It wasn’t as though Rodimus was blind to the fact that the situation was kind of… <em>off</em>. He just didn’t care too much. Yet. He liked to think he knew when he’d gotten too deep into something. One day he was sure he’d know what that felt like.</p>
<p>With clipped parting comments, he ended the phone call and stuffed the phone back in his subspace before noticing that Megatron had, at some point, finally entered the room instead of standing in the doorway like an absolute weirdo. The poor bastard still looked lost, standing in the middle of the room and idly looking around at the shadows like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. What? Was he a big fraidy cat scared of the dark? Then again, from what Rodimus understood, he generally only used his habsuite—basically a broom closet even though he <em>could</em> have asked for nicer digs—on the <em>Lost Light</em> to rest and sulk—”take stock”, yeesh. Not that he’d done that much lately. Did the spartan bastard even have a concept of what to do with personal quarters?</p>
<p>Luckily it was still relatively dim in the room save for a few lights, in keeping with the weird energy-saving aesthetic the Camiens had going on. It was harder to see the opulence so the impending whines of wasteful decadence would probably arrive with the sun. For someone who hated whining, Megatron certainly whined a lot about petty things, like the occasional luxury.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you correct her?” Oh, good, someone had found their thoughts at last instead of standing around like a particularly boring statue. Then again, Rodimus didn’t know many statues with with conspicuously-shaped surgical kits and glowing red eyes staring right at him.</p>
<p>Staring… right at him. Hm.</p>
<p>“About?”</p>
<p>“All of it." It was a little difficult to tell details but it was obvious that Megatron had just made some sort of sweeping gesture with his arm. Drama queen. "You just <em>indulged</em> her wildly inappropriate assumptions.”</p>
<p>“Oh." Rodimus sat up on the cushions he'd been lounging on and tapped his chin with a finger in thought. "Yeah, yeah, I absolutely did that. So what?”</p>
<p>“You gave her the <em>entirely</em> wrong idea and—” Was he turning <em>purple</em> over there? Damn, Rodimus had been wondering what it would take to fluster the stoic bastard and apparently even <em>implying</em> that he had a personal, private life had been the secret all along. He made a mental note to use that against his co-captain later, though not maliciously. Harmless prank usage only.</p>
<p>Yet, something else had been nagging the speedster, enough to interrupt his amusement at Megatron of all mechs being <em>embarrassed</em> like a normal person.</p>
<p><em>“It’s a good thing we greeted you first,” the Mistress of Flame had said, leading the pair of them away from the landing pad. “The populace would have <strong>swarmed</strong> you, <strong>fawning</strong>.”</em> </p>
<p>Rodimus had known at the time she had meant him, especially given how she had proceeded to functionally ignore Megatron, his friend, the entire evening and went on and on about the “divinity” of the Primes. The old bastard, Rodimus would begrudgingly admit, was just as essential to the workings of the ship as he himself was. They were, for better or worse, <em>friends</em> and she had treated him like a handbag.</p>
<p>Rodimus couldn’t have that.</p>
<p>Sure, he <em>loved</em> attention. This was no secret, but the way dinner had gone down hadn’t sat right with him, even while he had basked in the praise. He didn't care in the least for the <em>substance</em> of priestess' stories, but the doting on his ego…. As the conversation had wound down, his discomfort had really begun to sink in. So Rodimus had seen an opportunity in the Mistress of Flame's misunderstanding and he took it. While, sure, he didn’t expect Megatron to be <em>lauded</em>, even on this isolated planet. Still Rodimus had expected his friend would at least be given a bit more respect than that by virtue of being a captain, equal in rank to Rodimus in all ways that mattered. This was something he’d begrudgingly accepted himself over the past few years. It had been made startlingly clear in the old mech’s absence.</p>
<p>Besides, this way they had a free upgrade from whatever cheap accommodations Mags had originally booked.</p>
<p>“Look, it’s only a few days. If I have to be treated like some sort of weird deity, the least you could get is being treated with some dignity. <em>We</em>,” Rodimus gestured between the two of them with one hand, ”are a <em>team</em>, duh.”</p>
<p>"The very <em>implication</em> of <em>fraternization</em> could cast doubt on—"</p>
<p>Rodimus made another dismissive noise and flapped a flippant hand at him. Megs was always such a worrywart for no reason.</p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure you and Mags have whole presentation prepared on the ethics of fraternization but look, it's no big deal. We're on <em>vacation</em>." And their ship was about to be decommissioned anyway so there really wasn't any point in paying too much attention to appearances. Rodimus stood up and yawned, stretching his arms up high over his head. While, normally, he did like to stay up late, all of the extra socializing tonight had drained more of his mental battery than usual and that berth looked comfortable.</p>
<p>“Anyway, don’t worry about it, big guy. It’s just pretend. Just play along, okay?"</p>
<p>Megatron made only a noncommittal grunt but otherwise didn't move. Whatever. He could pout like an overgrown sparkling if he wanted to.</p>
<p>Rodimus made his way over to the huge recharge slab in the middle of the room. It was clearly meant to be shared, given the twin sets of recharging cables connected to the monitor at the head of the slab. Plenty of space, even considering the absolute giant having a moment of professional panic nearby.</p>
<p>"It's not like they're gonna ask you to do anything <em>weird</em>." Like kiss in public or… Huh. Nah. Anything else was <em>too</em> weird. He failed to imagine a culture where anything more affectionate in public was remotely acceptable. He shook his head, chuckling quietly at his own thoughts. At worst they might have to hold hands and that wasn't that new. He'd had to haul the old slagmaker away from his own stupid mistakes and dumb plans that way before. Then again, that might be a good excuse to make his buddy go purple again, which was <em>fucking hilarious</em>, if he said so himself.</p>
<p>As for that berth…. Awfully low to the floor, Rodimus thought, bumping his shin against the edge of the slab experimentally. Weird, but Camiens seemed to have a thing for low-set furniture. Should be comfy enough anyhow, he thought, flopping down and reaching for the cables on the side he'd decided would be his. Hm. Squishy. There was even some comfy padding. Made the slabs on <em>Lost Light</em> seem like they were meant for barracks—okay, so they were meant for barracks.</p>
<p>Besides, he figured it would be easier to rest with someone safe around. Then again, if you had asked him a few years ago what words he would have used to describe Megatron, "safe" and "familiar" and "comforting" would not have been on that list. Yet here they were.</p>
<p>Just as he grasped the cables so he could plug in for the remainder of the night, he heard a loud <em>thunk</em> on the floor on the other side of the slab. A grey shoulder and most of the accompanying back were visible over the edge.</p>
<p>“<em>Hell no</em>, you’re not sleeping on the floor!” The cables on the recharge slab weren’t long enough to reach him down there. Besides, the slab was low enough that it was practically on the floor anyway. Rodimus carelessly tossed his cables aside before throwing himself across the slab to grab an arm… a very <em>warm</em> arm. Hm.</p>
<p><em>"Unhand me!"</em> The lack of struggle clashed with the demand.</p>
<p>"You're too old for that slag! I will plug you in myself if I have to!"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is extra long because exposition and no good place to break it into two pieces. We are <i>slowly</i> getting into more of the actual action.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had been a strange night. Megatron, despite the late hour, had taken a long time to fall asleep, a shame given that recharge cables were really only efficient when the brain was mostly powered down. He had had to convince himself that this strange environment off the ship had been safe. The darkness, once the already dim lights had turned off due to likely being connected to an automatic timer, had begun crushing in on his senses yet again. Oppressive, like an imagined tomb of metal-laden rock. At first, it had been a struggle to explain to himself that the shadows had merely been… shadows and not silently collapsing support beams or flammable gases waiting for the slightest ignition source. Then a warmth, a strange lump on his left side had stirred and the ghostly illusion of a collapsing, derelict mine had disappeared as though banished by Rodimus’ proximity.</p>
<p>Frankly, Rodimus' familiar presence on the slab next to him had assisted more than he would probably ever be willing to admit. Even with the smaller captain's loud, graceless snoring—akin to a cleaning drone with a broken cooling fan—and constant tossing and turning, the mere company had been a comfort. Waking up to an arm on his face, blocking his vision when his groggy optics onlined, and a foot on his chest had been a small, albeit unusual price to pay for an actually restful recharge. </p>
<p>Had Rodimus always slept like a void-damned tornado? It had been a wonder he hadn't yanked out his own charging cables. At several points while debating getting off of the slab after the sun had risen, Megatron had glanced over just to ensure that his companion was, in fact, still plugged in. Miraculous.</p>
<p>Why had he agreed to this absolute farce? Well, strictly he hadn't <em>agreed</em> so much as silently <em>acquiesced</em>. It had simply been easier to "play along," as Rodimus had put it. Besides, it was a little late to tell their hosts that his co-captain had just been pretending, <em>joking</em>, to get a better accommodation, let alone outright say it was because Rodimus thought Megatron was being treated rudely. This whole affair felt like an inappropriate prank.</p>
<p>Sure, by now they were hardly <em>strangers</em>, but this… this scheme was baffling. Why care so much about how a condemned old mech was treated by the Mistress of Flame and her followers? It hardly mattered. A cynical, paranoid part of him had doubts about Rodimus’ motivations, but he knew from experience the smaller captain had a penchant for being earnest, not to mention <em>incredibly petty</em>, in even the most <em>trivial</em> matters.</p>
<p>Regardless, Megatron hadn't really had much time to think too hard about how awkward and yet comfortable it had been to recharge next to another person for the first time in… several million years. Shortly after the sun had risen and the rays of light had poked their way in through the windows, they received a probably polite yet urgent request to accompany the Mistress of Flame to the Forgefire Parliament, Caminus' actual, secular governing body. A strange request. They were not dignitaries, even if for whatever reason the local religion viewed Rodimus—somehow—as an emissary of the Divine, if not outright divine in his own right. </p>
<p>Before Megatron had a chance to object, Rodimus had taken him by the hand—he could have practically imagined the horrible color of his face—and unceremoniously dragged him out after the Torchbearers to meet the Mistress of Flame at the front of the property, where the temple met the public street. He had nearly smacked his head on the too short door frame, but had just barely managed to duck in time.</p>
<p>Now with the light of the sun to actually see their surroundings, ornate architectural choices were no longer invisible in the cloak of night. Swirls of bright paint highlighted intricate swirled carvings on the sides of buildings, doors, windows… and even in the pavement of the paths. The colors were mostly warm, reds, browns, oranges, and yellows, but that might have been due to the proximity to the temple. Honestly, even though the paths were obviously purpose-built, Megatron still felt a little odd walking on the artwork. This feeling was a far cry from when a far crueler and more callous form of himself had simply trampled innumerable other cultures with no regard for anything but domination.</p>
<p>Amusingly, in the daylight, Rodimus felt the need to point out that since the Torchbearers weren't carrying lanterns, that perhaps their name wasn't too on the nose after all. Megatron simply shook his head, walking a few paces behind his comrade once he managed to free his hand from the embarrassing, far too warm for his taste grip. It would have been funnier if Rodimus hadn't made his comments while they were within earshot of the sextet. It was a good thing the Camiens eschewed firearms, or if they decided Rodimus was suddenly no longer sacred, he might very well get himself shot. </p>
<p>The thought that it would serve the idiot right was quickly crushed by an intrusive “<em>won’t let that happen</em>” completely out of left field. What was that?</p>
<p>Perhaps the priestess' comments about "swarming" and "fawning" weren't <em>entirely</em> without basis in fact. Megatron had originally assumed it was more ego-stroking, but the street was lined with curious onlookers as they stepped out onto it. The Mistress of Flame led the way and her six guards flanked the pair of visitors. At least <em>this</em> time they weren't in cuffs, paraded like sinners by the supposedly pious for public mockery.</p>
<p>There were a mix of expressions to be picked out from the squirming crowd: inquisitiveness, <em>hope</em>, even perhaps <em>fear</em>. What would this strange new god bring to them? Many faces wore red paint underneath their optics, something he had seen somewhere before. These faces also seemed to belong to the most worshipful bystanders of all. Something about this made him <em>uneasy</em>, like a twinge in his fuel pump.</p>
<p>Most members of the crowd were polite enough to remain at a distance, though a few ventured closer for a better look at Rodimus. Not that Megatron could really blame them, not with the captain's loud paint and bravado-laden gait, the foolhardy mech was certainly a sight to behold, the center of everyone's—<em>his</em>—attention. The overly curious were quickly deterred by Torchbearers with surly looks, but not before the awe on their faces of being so close to a living Prime was plain to see. A few even dropped to their knees to bow low as they—well, Rodimus anyway—passed by. <em>And</em> of course the crimson mech's winning smiles and waves to the crowd only encouraged them.</p>
<p>Luckily they didn't have far to go as their destination loomed ever closer in the distance. The government building was in an oddly similar style to the temple, large but not overly so. The ostentatiousness was <em>all</em> in the adornment: particularly the carvings, lines flowing together like a river, yet gilded like fire. The shapes climbed their way up the sides of the building, wreathing doors and windows. </p>
<p>The Camiens had clearly developed a highly refined engraving culture. His own engravings, simple aesthetic swirls, from his gladiator days, he thought with a smile, must have looked amusingly primitive to them. If not for his impending death, Megatron would have considered having a new engraving done while they were here, a little memento. But, alas, the artwork would simply go to waste when he was deactivated.</p>
<p>After entering the government building, their conversation grew quiet. Mostly now was just the sounds of their steps as they followed along behind the Mistress of Flame and her entourage. It was a strange change from Rodimus exclaiming excitedly about various bits of novelty on the relatively short walk from the building where the high priestess resided on the temple grounds to where the planet's—<em>moon's</em>—legislature sat. </p>
<p>The hallways, well lit by the sun thanks to open windows, they were led through were rather narrow, as though the Camiens didn't generally come in sizes much bigger than Rodimus. From what he'd seen out on the street, that so far held true. A couple of the Torchbearers were larger, but no one here really approached his own build. Ultra Magnus and Riptide were probably struggling some while touring today. At least Minimus could escape his armor and ditch it in his office on the ship if the going became too tedious. Riptide was probably just kind of stuck if he couldn’t stoop enough.</p>
<p>A few guards were posted along the way but for the most part there was nothing really impeding access to the parliamentary chamber. There weren't even doors to pass through, only an archway, through which they followed the high priestess. With a tired grin, he thought that for once on this moon,  an entryway was tall enough that he didn’t have to duck. </p>
<p>The Torchbearers dispersed, taking up positions along the circular wall of the chamber. Up above were rows of seats, darkened save for the glow of many pairs of optics. Though the sun shone brightly through the open ceiling, illuminating the chamber floor carved into a likeness of their white dwarf sun, an overhang kept the members of parliament themselves shadowed. It gave one the sense of being both insignificant in the face of some grand being and yet also quite distinctly in the focus of its microscope.</p>
<p>“Esteemed members of parliament, last night a welcomed guest arrived to our humble world." The sharp voice of the Mistress of Flame jarred Megatron out of his silent survey the room, where they, here and now, stood center stage. </p>
<p>Rodimus excitedly looked around at the glowing stares above them. Was he expecting to recognize someone? More likely just curious. The smaller mech did tend to poke around for the sheer amusement of it. Hopefully obvious optic contact wasn’t taboo on this world. They were all gazing intently down at the visitors anyway, so why not stare back, Megatron supposed.</p>
<p>"We are blessed <em>merely</em> by his presence.” <em>Nonsense</em>. Utter nonsense, but this was not his place to say anything. He was a guest here, not that <em>this</em> was a place on Caminus he would have ever wanted to specifically visit. The local archives, if he could be granted access, would have interested him far more.</p>
<p> Still, he could practically <em>feel</em> Rodimus at his side absolutely <em>beaming</em> at being called a blessing. The former Matrix-bearer was only going to be even <em>more</em> insufferable. Megatron could just <em>sense</em> it in his endoskeleton, specifically in his spine where all <em>off</em> feelings tended to settle.</p>
<p>“But I have reason to believe he is more than simply a Prime. While Optimus Prime has <em>clearly</em> been shown to be the Arisen incarnate, " she said, arms waved wide and high for emphasis. The high priestess must have been quite the experienced showman, especially if she managed to convince anyone that <em>Optimus</em> of all useless mechs was a deity made metal. That constituted <em>yet another</em> problem to address on their eventual return to Cybertron, preferably via quiet, <em>private</em> conversation with his old friend.</p>
<p>"I feel we have been even more blessed in these modern times than we could ever have imagined. We are in an age where the deities of old walk among us once more.”</p>
<p>The members of parliament murmured amongst themselves but none of it was distinct to his ear. Years in the mines, in the pits, and on the battlefield had severely damaged Megatron's hearing. He'd never bothered to get it fixed. Despite how loud Rodimus could be, he was almost always, at least, <em>audible</em>. While he had learned to live with the sensory deficit, at times like this, being scrutinized like a specimen on display, Megatron wished he could make out their whispers.</p>
<p>“Today, I believe, we have with us—" The Mistress of Flame turned sharply, pointing the index finger of her right hand directly at Rodimus. "—the <em>reenforgement</em> of Solus Prime herself!”</p>
<p>Megatron stiffened his back with incredulity, hand to his chest at the absolutely <em>absurd</em> pronouncement. Whereas the members of parliament, in their undistinguished mass above the chamber floor where the three visitors stood, whispered fervently, <em>feverishly</em>. The stares of the politicians bored into them with understandable judgment. Had the Mistress of Flame somehow committed an act of blasphemy? </p>
<p>He glanced over at Rodimus. The younger mech practically vibrating in… either excitement or anxiety as he stood there beneath the harsh scrutiny of so many strangers. He was framed by the practically glowing sun underneath their feet, the cold white light from the stellar remnant sparkling off of the surface of his radiant—<em>garish</em>, he corrected himself—plating. </p>
<p>Who was he kidding? Rodimus was <em>blasphemy on wheels</em>, no matter who tried to deify him, no matter how <em>charming</em> the thoughtless fool could be. Megatron still felt, somehow, the odd urge to try and at least block his companion from the eyes above them, as though the gazes themselves were a threat.</p>
<p>“However, we cannot substantiate many of the tales told about the Cybertronian ship, the <em>Lost Light</em>, and we <em>cannot</em> press forward on <em>rumors</em> and <em>hearsay</em> alone!” The high priestess stamped the tail-end of her staff on the intricate chamber floor, underscoring her resolve. “I propose a set of <em>six trials</em>, in commemoration of Solus Prime’s six-sided Creation Lathe! We shall use these trials to ascertain his identity!”</p>
<p>There was a soft, yet peremptory <em>thud</em> nearby as Rodimus slammed a determined fist into the palm of his other hand.</p>
<p>"I'll do it!"</p>
<p>What? <em>No!</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“I propose a set of <strong>six trials</strong>, in commemoration of Solus Prime’s six-sided Creation Lathe! We shall use these trials to ascertain his identity!”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"I'll do it!"</em>
</p>
<p>“Rodimus, what <em>are</em> you thinking?” </p>
<p>After the members of the Forgefire Parliament erupted with… outrage? Religious fervor? It had been hard to identify and Megatron had had to resist the urge—and not for the first time—to bodily haul Rodimus away from the commotion for his own damn good. Clearly the members were not monolithic, each of their own mind on the matter. </p>
<p>However, the Mistress of Flame seemed to take it as approval for her proposal. After the cacophony had died down, she and her Torchbearers had escorted the both of them from the chamber floor. Megatron remembered having glanced down once more at its delicate carvings, painted white like the dead star core that lit this world, but most of the return trip to be deposited back in their temporary quarters at the temple had become a blur.</p>
<p>Not even midday yet and everything was already the beginnings of a fiasco. Megatron couldn’t take Rodimus anywhere. Hopefully, though deep down he knew that hope was in vain, this supposed rumor of godhood wouldn’t leak out to the crew. At least half of them would <em>laugh</em> and maybe even a few would <em>believe</em> it. The same could be said for the other rumor, of them being somehow <em>involved</em>… No.</p>
<p>Rodimus was already slouched on the couch-like cushion that he had asked Megatron to haul from the main room out to the balcony to enjoy the sunshine and the accompanying cityscape while they were “asked”—forced—to stay here and wait for an update from their hosts. Instead of calling his co-captain a lazy good-for-nothing who was perfectly capable of moving the furniture himself, Megatron had simply moved the item as requested without complaint when the fool looked at him with those big blue optics and whined “<em>please</em>” with an <em>unnecessarily</em> long vowel. Now he was kicking himself over it, among other things.</p>
<p>The little heat-sink probably wasn’t even listening to him, <em>as usual</em>. No one took him seriously these days, but in Rodimus’ defense, the former Prime never did to start with.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, what? Did you say something, big guy? Got lost in being awesome again for a klik there.”</p>
<p>“I’m <em>talking</em> about your agreement to these <em>ridiculous</em>, and possibly <em>dangerous</em> trials.” For a brief moment, he considered if perhaps the Camiens had bugged their quarters. It was <em>unlikely</em> but not <em>impossible</em>. Besides, mostly they would hear him accidentally colliding with the walls and door frames. He could feel an ache in the barrel behind his shoulder from where he’d smacked against the doorway to the balcony, under which he was still uncomfortably bent forward.</p>
<p>“Look, so hear me out—”</p>
<p>Megatron continued to silently frown. Rodimus wasn’t even looking at him, so he must have simply sensed it as the hand he’d been gesturing with stilled in the air. He had frowned at the younger mech often enough during their tenure on that flying madhouse they called home.</p>
<p>Rodimus' discomfort with primehood was also fairly well known, at least among the crew of the <em>Lost Light</em> and what remained of Autobot High Command. It was, perhaps, one of the few things the attention-seeking firebrand <em>didn't</em> wave around like a banner. Why would he <em>ever</em> agree to this? He'd even tried to put the Mistress of Flame off the idea when they first had landed.</p>
<p>“It’s just a little vacation extension, Megs. Don’t even worry about it.” Rodimus waved a hand at him over his shoulder before resuming his being incredibly comfortable looking on the lounge cushions. “Yeesh, would it <em>kill</em> you to relax?”</p>
<p>Most likely. </p>
<p>Still, he felt his spark sink a little when Rodimus tensed, as though he realized that hadn’t been the best word choice, given the situation they were facing back home. Megatron decided to accept his friend’s visible discomfort as more than an apology enough. Besides, he’d been making peace with the inevitable for… a long time now.</p>
<p>Primus, this trip was <em>designed</em> to kill him before Prowl could do it himself. Megatron crossed his arms, indignant, as he left the doorway to stand a few paces behind the cushion, still in the twilight of the overhang on the balcony. Now that the sun was up, high in the sky, he could see that it too was elaborately carved with a flowing fire pattern. The entire temple was like this, done up in the likeness of a conflagration.</p>
<p>“The Mistress of Flame is <em>obviously</em> up to something. Even if she somehow <em>isn’t</em>, we <em>don’t have time</em>. This could take how long? Days? Months? <em>Years?</em>” It took all of his will not to wave his arms and hands around to gesture in time to his points. Rodimus wasn’t even looking and probably wouldn’t care if he was. Unflappable fool. Besides, facing away from him, the red mech wouldn’t catch Megatron trying not to notice how the light from the stellar remnant that passed for a sun on this world reflected beautifully off his co-captain’s stupidly shiny plating. It distracted from his <em>valid</em> concerns.</p>
<p>“Then that’s just more time. So what? What’s wrong with more time?” Rodimus rolled over, flopping onto his back—did that not hurt his spoiler?—to look up at him, somewhat pleadingly. “Don’t <em>you</em> want more time?”</p>
<p>That was a loaded question. <em>Incredibly</em> loaded actually. Rodimus, however, seemed to take Megatron’s silence and hesitation to respond as some kind of answer, even one he hadn’t intended to give. The judgmental face the much smaller mech was making was quite telling.</p>
<p>“Rodimus. <em>Please.</em>" A rare word in and of itself from his vocalizer. "It’s not that I—”</p>
<p>“Nah, I get it.” A golden hand stopped him when it lifted into the air, the flat of the palm turned towards him like a barrier. “You’re tired. Ready to go. Got your savings together to buy the farm,. Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” He rolled back over to look dejectedly at the colorful cityscape. “Loud and clear, buddy. Loud and clear.” </p>
<p>Was Rodimus blaming himself again? Most likely. He’d been taking the idea of adventure ending the hardest after all. That was what the victory lap was for, to buy time for… <em>something</em>. If only, Megatron thought, he knew how to help. He couldn’t stand to see Rodimus like that, especially while being powerless to bring that winning smile back.</p>
<p>It was funny, Megatron thought, looking up at the sky were the stellar remnant that passed for a life-giving sun on this world was slowly continuing its long arc towards the horizon, evening not set to fall for a great many hours yet. There was no fusion in that star’s core, not any longer. The star itself was the source of the energy shortage that had perpetually plagued this moon. It had long-since exploded, violently destroying the system around it save for a few lucky planets that had been too far-flung to be lost in the envelope of the supernova. It would sit there… for billions of years yet, slowly cooling, the energy and warmth it radiated to the system dwindling until eventually it would give off no light. No heat. Nothing. A cold, dead core of matter floating in space. Borrowed time. Caminus was on borrowed time. And so was he…. So were they.</p>
<p>Megatron turned, carefully stooping to avoid catching his poor, abused barrel on the frame of the entryway again, and walked back into their dimly lit habsuite.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>It was hard to enjoy the sight of the pretty buildings, covered in all manner of colors and cut shapes. It was hard to enjoy the sun vaguely warming his plating. It was even hard to enjoy the thrill of not only being held up as a <em>god</em>, but as a <em>very specific</em> god, the one most revered by the local population. Sure, Rodimus was pretty sure the whole thing was bunk anyway, but why not enjoy it a little? He could have been <em>out there</em>, being <em>worshiped</em>! He could have been receiving as much adoration and attention as he could have ever wanted from the reverent masses. Well, he could if they weren’t supposed to sit tight for a bit. Being a Prime wasn’t something Rodimus had really wanted to <em>embrace</em>, not after… certain events, but on Caminus, it meant… something else.</p>
<p>Instead, he was reclining here like a sad lump, feeling sorry for himself. Very ungodly. It was tough to be a god apparently, at least according to one Earth film he’d been forced to watch by Swerve. How did Optimus do it? Probably with practiced ease and aplomb….</p>
<p>Mostly now the problem was that <em>now</em> he felt like a complete <em>heel</em>. He’d roped Megatron into yet another series of shenanigans that would probably take ages, something Rodimus had originally <em>thought</em> was a good thing. The more time he had to spend with his friend, the better, right? But when Megatron had stalked off in silence to be somewhere else, <em>away</em> from <em>him</em>, it had finally clicked that maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t what his co-captain wanted. Rodimus had gone and screwed it all up again. Now he was wasting what little time he did have, especially if these trials were quick.</p>
<p>Idiot. <em>Idiot. <strong>Idiot!</strong></em></p>
<p>That was all Rodimus could think. He saw an opportunity to extend their trip, even if it was <em>silly</em> and <em>selfish</em>, and, by Primus, <em>he took it</em>. He took it without so much as a second thought beyond the uncertain, foolish, <em>hopeful</em> promise of <em>more time</em>. Not that he knew what he even wanted to do with it. </p>
<p>That was the whole point of the victory lap. </p>
<p>He hadn’t been willing to just let Prowl decommission the <em>Lost Light</em>, to take Megatron away. Especially after only <em>just</em> getting him back from the other universe. For some reason the thought of Prowl taking him away, probably never to be seen again, never to complain at Rodimus again over something petty like making sure he got enough recharge, made him feel… ill. Rather than question it, he had decided on avoidance. Easier to avoid what caused the discomfort than address it. Push it as far away as possible. That was how Rodimus tended to deal with problems and it only bit him in the aft… about seventy percent of the time. Good enough odds.</p>
<p>Maybe, Rodimus thought, idly looking out at the horizon without really taking any of it in, he should tell the Mistress of Flame that he was having second thoughts. He and Megatron had things to do, obligations to get back to. They, honestly, didn’t even really subscribe to this particular cult.</p>
<p>Maybe he could talk his way out of proving anything. He was still a Prime in the eyes of the Camiens anyway, so who cared about Solus specifically? Okay, besides the obvious faithful devotees. He hadn't really wanted to be <em>god</em> anyway. It had just been an excuse, but now… What was the point of drawing out the inevitable? How could he enjoy it, all the while thinking that even a supposed god couldn’t save—No. He didn’t want to think about it. If only his brain would <em>shut the hell up</em>.</p>
<p>Heaving a pitiful sigh, he tossed himself onto his back, uncaring about the twinges of pain in his spoiler fins from the unceremonious flop. Rodimus held up his hands in front of his face to look at them. No particular reason. Just to have something to do while he felt uneasy. Looking at his hands or picking away at flaking paint was a common tactic for him to just… do <em>something</em>, anything other than confront whatever weird feelings his processor was trying to blindly, desperately juggle.</p>
<p>"Hey, Megs, we can call the whole thing off," he said, perhaps a bit too loudly. He had no idea how far away that metal mountain had wandered and Rodimus didn't feel much like getting up. He also was never quite sure how much he needed to compensate for Megatron’s damaged hearing. The bastard liked to pretend he was fine, but Rodimus had noticed that there was an issue not long after Optimus first dropped him off. “Just, you know, forget about it.”</p>
<p>Instead of an answer, he heard what sounded a bit like Megatron speaking into his wrist commlink. For some reason he <em>had</em> always preferred those to phones. What an old mech. It stopped Rodimus from sending him funny emoticons just to confuse the heck out of him, knowing he would have to use a search engine to look up what an eggplant is.  </p>
<p>"I'm not able to provide an updated timeline, but—No, no. Not at all. Mhm." Probably talking to Magnus. "Yes, it would be most helpful if you could apprise Optimus and Prowl of the delay." Definitely Magnus.</p>
<p>So much for calling the whole thing off.</p>
<p>"Never mind, I guess." Not that anyone heard that. It didn’t matter. Nothing did.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you to FelinaLain for mentioning <a href="https://youtu.be/igxDzfJ2MPo">this song</a> ("It's Tough To Be A God" from <i>The Road To El Dorado</i>). It might go better with some more upbeat scenes when we get there. I promise we'll get there.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"What do you think of this one, Ratchet?" Drift held up a sword, one of the many on display in the foundry's shop-front. It was narrow in the blade with no curve. Ratchet couldn't really make heads or tails of whether or not it was a good one but Drift clearly wanted his opinion. A geometric pattern based primarily on triangles had been stamped into the metal along the spine of the blade, the bevels stained with blue and green dithered together. It was definitely aesthetically appealing, at the very least. His knowledge of spectralist meanings was also limited but maybe that didn’t matter if the smith followed the local fire religion instead. There was also a chance that there was no meaning behind it beyond the swordsmith’s preference.</p><p>“Smithing is a sacred profession here, after all.” Drift added with a playful wink, unprompted. In the back of his mind, Ratchet could almost hear Anode making a <em>comment</em>, but luckily she hadn’t come with them on this “victory lap.”</p><p>"It looks… sharp." <em>Excellent</em>. Ratchet nodded, pleased with his clever insight into a field he knew very little about aside from what made for a good scalpel. This sword certainly would not, not even for a titan. Honestly, he would rather take a blaster over a blade if given the choice. More distance between himself and the splatter of potential pathogens. He’d been elbow-deep in more than enough spilled energon in his life. At this point he would prefer to keep that sort of exposure limited to the operating table. Drift raised a doubtful eyebrow.</p><p>"Yeah, but more specifically? I mean, it's a <em>sword</em>. It should be sharp. I would <em>hope</em> it would be sharp. It’s not for show, Ratch."</p><p>Drift had wanted to spend the first day of their vacation out and about, to really take in the local atmosphere. Last night after disembarking and checking into the local hotel the command crew had booked with, all they, though mostly Ratchet, had gotten stubbed feet from walking around in what was basically the dark. The Camiens kept everything so damn dimly lit at night, expecting their slowly cooling star to do all the work. It was a <em>void-damned hazard</em>. </p><p>For all of the spirituality of the population, Ratchet had expected that Drift would have drug him to the temple to learn more about local ways, but no. Not yet anyway. Frankly, Ratchet would still take a trip to the smithy over a temple. Though the local architectural styles were quite beautiful, each building a monument to meaningful expression under scarcity.</p><p>"Well, it's nice to look at but I… Look, Drift, you know I'm not particularly familiar with… this." He paused, a moment of hesitation. "Not yet."</p><p>Undeterred, Drift gave him a broad, toothy grin, carefully weighing the blade in his hands, presumably to check the balance.</p><p>"I can teach you. Don’t worry, Ratchet."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Listen, I’m telling you guys, something really weird is going on.” Swerve pointed one of his stubby fingers in the air, pausing in his walk down the street. Misfire, who had been a number of steps ahead, stopped and turned back to look at his shorter friend doubtfully.</p><p>“That’s an every day occurrence for us though,” Riptide said, bringing up the rear of their little impromptu traveling party. The hotel had been rather light in providing snacks and refreshments beyond simple fuel rations and Swerve, not willing to have that, had gathered up some hungry compatriots—with shanix to spare for munchies—from the lobby. Riptide figured he’d been brought along mostly because he could carry more than either Misfire or Swerve, but he didn’t mind. It was nice to go out, even if the weather was too dry for his liking. What this place needed was a really good <em>rainstorm</em>. That would make this whole thing better… and maybe he could float down the street, really stretch out his pontoons and relax.</p><p>The problem was that now that they were stalled, he could really feel his fuel tank cramping from the lack of delicious things he was currently not stuffing in his face. Riptide wrapped his arms around his middle and pouted.</p><p>“Sure, but I overheard the hotel staff this morning say something about Rodimus being put <em>on trial</em>.”</p><p>“On… trial?” Misfire, who generally seemed to like Swerve’s wild tales as far as Riptide could tell, didn’t seem to be buying this one. He tapped his chin in thought before shaking his head. “Dunno. We haven’t even been here a full day yet. I don’t think he could have gotten into trouble <em>that</em> quickly—” Then a conspiratorial look settled on Misfire’s already very animated face. “What do you think he’s been charged with?”</p><p>“Oh, probably something really petty to us but carries the death penalty on Caminus, like… jaywalking or walking the wrong way on the wrong side of the street or swearing,” Swerve suggested with a shrug, like he knew everything about Camien law. For all Riptide knew, maybe he did since the resident bartender knew so much random information anyway. “Or spitting on the sidewalk.”</p><p>Normally, Riptide liked to think he wasn’t gullible, despite evidence to the contrary. However, now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen Rodimus at all since the command crew disembarked the <em>Lost Light</em> to secure their customs approval. Only Ultra Magnus came back. <em>Neither</em> of their captains returned and—Riptide suddenly forgot all about his burning desire for salty crunchy nibbles.</p><p>“Guys, I gotta go make a phone call really fast.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>This vacation was not at all going as Minimus had expected. Firstly they had been unexpectedly greeted by a high-ranking diplomatic entourage. Secondly said diplomatic entourage had whisked off with the captains of his ship, leaving him and their third-in-command to wrangle and herd the rowdy crew off of the ship, in the middle of the night, in the dark with minimal lighting. <em>All of this</em> while juggling last minute booking cancellations no less. What an absolute mess.</p><p>Now. Now, if he could believe what he had heard from Megatron’s most recent comm, Rodimus had convinced the local government and priesthood that he was some sort of god. As a result, the trip would last… longer, an as yet undefined period of time. If anyone was going to keep Rodimus out of trouble, Minimus would have thought it would have been Megatron, but they both knew that the younger captain was a force of nature in and of himself.</p><p>When he’d received the news, he <em>had been</em> busy escorting Whirl through the marketplace in the Magnus armor. Not that Whirl had done anything, <em>yet</em>, but that Whirl wanted company wandering the marketplace. Cyclonus and Tailgate had gone off to do something without him. The helicopter had cornered the unarmored second-in-command in the lobby of the hotel that morning complaining that he’d been “abandoned” by those “lovebirds.” Minimus had agreed simply because he could then keep an eye on Whirl. His own itinerary had already been disrupted simply by the booking adjustments, so he suddenly had time to accommodate and slip back into his armor.</p><p>Clicking off his comm, Ultra Magnus sighed and shook his head. So much for the itinerary being disrupted. Now it had been blown to pieces and the dregs thrown into a trash compactor, which was then promptly lit on fire. So much for a trip to the local archives with Megatron that afternoon like he had planned. It seemed like now he would be busy for some time, “keeping an eye” on Rodimus. While he wasn’t sure what this new situation would quite entail, as he had been promised a full briefing that evening, he heard earlier some rumors circulating among the crowded marketplace of the arrival of a Prime. That hadn’t caught his attention much given that technically could describe their more… <em>exuberant</em> captain. Though now, in light of the new situation, the rumors processed a little… <em>differently</em>.</p><p>Worse, he thought, now he’d have to contact Cybertron and explain why their return would be delayed. Not because he wanted to hurry back, no, on the contrary. Maybe this would mean more time with his friends before they’re all forced apart, some permanently. It would just be an unfortunate conversation to have with Prowl and Optimus. To say they would not be pleased would be an understatement of criminal proportions, especially when Minimus would be unable to provide them with a revised timeline.</p><p>Ultra Magnus turned to Whirl, who had been oddly quiet throughout the comm from Megatron. Not even <em>one</em> lewd, insubordinate comment about the captain’s creators hollered unbidden over the former enforcer’s wrist. That was suspiciously good behavior. That should have been his first clue.</p><p>“Whirl, I’m sorry. I have to—” There was a distinct lack of Whirl in the crowd around him. Where had he run off to?</p><p>“Oi! Law bot!” Ultra Magnus spun around, spying a blue-green claw waving around above the heads of the crowd a few shops down. Luckily they both towered over the average Camien, though Whirl did so far less dramatically. The helicopter had something in his claws, waving it in the air with absolute zeal, like a prized trophy. Activating the zoom function in the armor’s optics with a click, he saw that Whirl had a chronometer of what appeared to be local make and style. He’d found a watchmaker’s workshop.</p><p>“Over here!”</p><p>That would certainly keep the ship’s “favorite” menace busy long enough to have a conversation with the higher-ups.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"No, Riptide, Rodimus is <em>not</em> on trial." That would have been a sight to see, Megatron thought, frowning down at the open commlink in his wrist. "He hasn't committed a crime <em>yet</em> as far as I'm aware." There was a sigh. "Yet" was the operative word. Was it possible to commit blasphemy if you were the deity in question? Rodimus would certainly be the one to try.</p>
<p>"… Are you sure?" Wonderful mech, Riptide. Dumb as a box of rocks, but he had a good spark. Occasionally shockingly perceptive. </p>
<p>"Yes, I'm quite sure." Swerve had such a big mouth for such a tiny bartender. Then again, he supposed it was to be expected. A penchant for gossip was a necessity for the bartending trade and Megatron would have been quite the fool to think that the morning's revelations at the Forgefire Parliament would have been kept quiet. A myriad of different spins on the Mistress of Flame's pronouncement had probably made the rounds of this particular city within hours if not sooner. </p>
<p>"There's merely been a misunderstanding, a case of mistaken identity. Nothing more, and you should know better by now than to listen to Swerve for anything beyond how much your tab is."</p>
<p>"Can I talk to him?" Did Riptide not trust him to tell the truth? After all this time? Oh well.</p>
<p>"You're on my commlink." <em>In my wrist.</em></p>
<p>"Yeah, but can I talk to him?"</p>
<p>"Fine." Megatron didn't appreciate being a walking telecommunications device but this likely wouldn't take long and there wasn't much harm. They were supposed to stay in the suite and await an update from the priesthood and the members of parliament. Locked in a suite for hours with a mopey, oddly silent Rodimus was not a pleasant experience. Might as well let Riptide talk to him instead of asking him to call the other captain directly. Riptide would have just called him back several times to make sure the number was right.</p>
<p>"Thanks, Dad."</p>
<p>"<em>What?</em>"</p>
<p>It was probably in everyone's best interests to simply ignore that.</p>
<p>Rodimus was lounging—sulking—on the cushions on the balcony again. He had been getting up and down repeatedly for the last couple of hours like he didn't know where to put himself. The constant motion had been driving him out if his mind all day. It was impossible to get any reading done with someone pointedly moping. It seemed Megatron had at least caught him in a stationary position for this <em>incredibly important</em> phone call.</p>
<p>Approaching the cushions on the balcony, Megatron stretched out his left arm towards Rodimus, the comm panel still open.</p>
<p>"Riptide for you."</p>
<p>The racer flopped over inelegantly and frowned up at the extended wrist.</p>
<p>"Megs. Seriously. That's your arm. <em>Not</em> Riptide."</p>
<p>For a brief second, he had a serious concern but then a small smirk broke out on the smaller mech's face. So Rodimus thought he was <em>funny</em>. Maybe that was… <em>just a little</em> funny.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Not long after Riptide was satisfied that Rodimus was alright and not about to be put in front of a firing squad—Megatron could only wonder if Riptide felt some level of guilt for being swayed and manipulated by Getaway—the update from the Camiens arrived. A firm knock at door alerted him to the visiting messenger just as he snapped the comm panel on his wrist shut.</p>
<p>
  <em>About damn time. </em>
</p>
<p>While his time on both the <em>Lost Light</em> and in the functionist universe had granted him more patience than he'd had most of his life, he still felt no joy waiting around for nothing… or worse, waiting around for complete nonsense. Maybe <em>now</em> he could get some recreational reading done or they could outside or anything that wasn't wasting precious hours of their vacation loafing.</p>
<p>"Rodimus, the courier is here." It was a message for him after all. The red mech could get it himself. Megatron was not his personal delivery drone. Several moments of nothing passed, the older captain double-checking that the latch on his comm had closed properly, before there was another knock.</p>
<p>"Rodimus, did you hear me?" He glanced over to see that the layabout was still on the balcony, sprawled out like a melted starfish. Rodimus simply grumbled something incoherent.</p>
<p>There came another knock, rather more insistent than the last.</p>
<p>
  <em>Fine.</em>
</p>
<p><em>He</em> would get the door. Having to carry the façade of being this rolling disaster's consort-protector apparently also meant carrying out simple tasks that Rodimus was more than capable of doing on his own… when he wasn't being a self-pitying, miserable lump. As much as he felt insulted by the very idea of being <em>expected</em> to serve, some horrible, traitorous part of him <em>wanted</em> to. Not for any reason beyond their friendship, of course. That's what he told himself. It was just like assisting Soundwave with his myriad of cassettes. Nothing strange.</p>
<p>In several strides, he had reached the door. Just as he was about to tap the access panel on the wall to slide the door open, Megatron felt a sharp shove against his midsection as something zoomed underneath his outstretched arm and slapped the access panel.</p>
<p>"<em>Rodimus!</em>" At that moment, the door slid into the wall with a soft <em>chunk</em> sound. A small, even smaller than Rodimus, Camien stood there, with light blue and green paint and streaks of red painted underneath their green eyes. That eye paint was a common cosmetic choice here, he thought. What did it mean? </p>
<p>For now though, there was a more immediate concern. He had just yelled at one of their deities, potentially their chief deity depending on the outcome of these "trials." This little mech's optics were wide with shock as they held out the datapad. Presumably shock. Hopefully this wasn't the precursor to him being marched off to a cell by a sextet of Torchbearers for blasphemy and general impious behavior.</p>
<p>Rodimus struck him in the middle with a sharp, but not particularly forceful jab from his elbow before taking the datapad like he hadn't just shoved his way to the door like a complete boor when he'd been given <em>every</em> opportunity to get up and answer the door himself. It was beginning to feel like he was going to have a permanent elbow-shaped dent in his gut if things kept going at the current rate.</p>
<p>"Babe, calm down." <em>Stop that!</em> A low growl rumbled in his vocalizer. He opened his mouth to object, ruse be damned, but Rodimus didn't give him the chance. "You're scaring people <em>again</em>."</p>
<p>He sighed, the growl dying with no resistance. They were supposed to act like they were in some sort of committed partnership after all. For reasons that he still thought were <em>asinine</em>. However, he knew from experience that it was nearly <em>impossible</em> to change Rodimus' mind once he’d made it up.</p>
<p>"Thank you," he said and, more brusquely than intended, smacked the access panel in frustration. The door snapped shut in the unfortunate little courier mech's face. So much for that newfound patience.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>"<em>Hey!</em>"</p>
<p>Rodimus jumped at the sound of the door hitting the stop after Megatron shut it like a jerk in the face of the poor little courier. They'd been looking at him, in all of his godly glory, with such awe and adoration and then the big brute just <em>had</em> to block them from getting their fill of his… his ‘<em>ness</em>,' whatever that actually was. </p>
<p>Jealous, probably.</p>
<p>For some reason. </p>
<p>It wasn’t like he didn't get to <em>bask</em> in Rodimus' awesomeness all day every day. It wasn't like there wasn't enough of him to go around. Megatron could maybe, you know, <em>share</em>. Like a normal person. No need to hog him. Though experience told him Megatron was not great at sharing unless he was asking that something be shared with <em>him</em>, with very pointed use of "our."</p>
<p>What a dork.</p>
<p>"Rude," he mumbled, turning away from the self-appointed doorman to look at the datapad that had just been delivered, earlier melancholy seemingly forgotten in the rush of something <em>new</em>, a distraction. Camien datapads were awfully thin compared the ones they were used to. Must be that resource conservation at work again. He clicked the device on, just as heavy footfalls began to move away from him.</p>
<p>Hm.</p>
<p>It looked to be information for the first of these trial thingies. Cool. They could get this show on the road. His spark started spinning faster at the very idea. What sorts of things would they even ask him to do? He could hardly begin to imagine what qualified as a godly feat. Rodimus tapped around on the screen excitedly, rapidly skipping from one section to the next as he skimmed to get the gist.</p>
<p>"Light a fire, huh? That's <em>easy</em>.” Rodimus pshawed. “This being a god shit is for sparklings!" He laughed and not-so-gently smacked the datapad with the back of his hand. No wonder this fire cult exists if no one here even knew <em>how</em> to light a fire. Just ignite some stuff with like a sparking, unprotected wire or something. Bam. Done. Cavebot stuff. "Get a load of this, Megs!"</p>
<p>Wheeling around, Rodimus flapped his arm with the datapad as though he expected Megatron to be standing right behind him, having forgotten the giant had walked off. Spying him stooping to go out onto the balcony, Rodimus sprinted over. Skidding and spinning to a stop right in front of his friend, he waved the datapad around right in front of the taller mech's face, even if he had to jump up and down to do it. Never mind the fact that there was no way Megatron could actually read it like that….</p>
<p>"Rodimus, I somehow <em>highly doubt</em> it's <em>that</em> simple…." He reached out to tentatively take the datapad from the floundering hand. Rodimus begrudgingly held still to let him have the item. What a sourpuss.</p>
<p>"Look, Megs, c'mon. It's <em>fire</em>, not fucking <em>quantum mechanics</em>. Even if it was, I know somebody for that too. <em>I</em> can do fire."</p>
<p>The grey mech huffed in disbelief, holding the datapad up to his face so he could read it. What? Did he need <em>glasses</em> now too? Decrepit. He clicked the power button a few times for some inconceivable reason. Surely Megatron knew how to operate a freaking <em>datapad</em> what with how often he used them.</p>
<p>"Well, we won't know now."</p>
<p>"Why? What do you mean? Did you break the power button with your big ol' giant hands?"</p>
<p>"<em>You</em> broke it, <em>o' most graceful Prime</em>." Megatron turned around the datapad in his hand for Rodimus to see. Before he could tell his friend to stuff the unnecessary sarcasm right up his entire aft, his brain finally registered the obvious, visible damage to the object. A long, branching crack had bloomed across the now black screen. </p>
<p>Oh yeah. </p>
<p>He'd <em>definitely</em> trashed it with his enthusiasm.</p>
<p>"<em>Slag.</em>"</p>
<p>"<em>Excellent</em> work, Rodimus. <em>Fantastic.</em>"</p>
<p>"If you keep rubbing it in like that, I take back what I said last night. You <em>will</em> recharge on the <em>floor</em>. No cuddles for you."</p>
<p>Somehow <em>that</em> shut him up. Weird. Better save tidbit that for later.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Minimus had been uneasy about making this call. Having left Whirl unattended with the local watchmaker, he had returned to the confines of his office on the <em>Lost Light</em>. That seemed the more appropriate place to make official contact with his superiors than in his hotel room in the city. Also his wrist commlink didn’t have the range to reach Cybertron from the far-flung colony moon. Furthermore, he had to remain in the Magnus armor for the duration of the call, a persona Minimus had felt less and less connected with as time went on. Maybe one day soon he could shelve Ultra Magnus, he thought, staring at the outdated name plaque on his desk. He really ought to change the title on it.</p><p>It was also a bit strange to think of Prowl and Optimus as his superiors when they had all been a functionally autonomous unit for so long, especially since, strictly, the <em>Lost Light</em> was an independent vessel with an unofficial government mandate. Rodimus outright owned it and it flew no colors. The crew was a mix of Autobots, Decepticons, and non-aligned Cybertronians. He shook his head, not wanting to lose himself to the complicated jurisdiction debate spiral that he could feel brewing in the back of his processor. Not again. It happened often enough as it was and generally resulted in <em>at least</em> an hour of being unproductive each time.</p><p>Taking a deep breath, he calmly punched the appropriate frequency into the stationary commlink on his desk. Unlike a wrist commlink, the stationary ones had limited holographic capabilities. The bridge used a somewhat more sophisticated one for contact with Cybertonian frequencies, but utilized a regular on-screen audio-video-feed for alien communications.</p><p>A few moments of static passed, the holographic blue circle on the top of the device fizzing and buzzing while the call rang through. The automated operator picked up, only a smooth, synthetic voice that produced waves in the projected circle as it thanked him for contacting Autobot High Command and listed the available menu options. </p><p>General information. Payroll questions. Report for active duty. Appeal a demobilization request denial. Report suspicious activity. Complaints about your superior officer. Complaints regarding Emperor Starscream of Vos. Complaints about Captain Megatronus of Tarn. Report conscientious objectors. Inclement weather updates. If this is a medical emergency, please hang up and call the nearest medical center. Stay on the line and listen for the tone to request specific persons to contact or press 0 at any time to speak to a customer service representative.</p><p>At the anticipated high-pitched beep, after patiently waiting, he said, “Optimus Prime. Commander Prowl.”</p><p>
  <em>“I’m sorry, but I did not understand your request. Please slowly restate the designations of the officials you wish to contact.”</em>
</p><p>Minimus was sorely tempted to simply call their private frequencies, but that seemed inappropriate. He cleared his vocalizer with a cough. “Optimus Prime and Prowl.”</p><p>
  <em>“Thank you. Now processing your request. Estimated wait: 45 minutes.”</em>
</p><p>Wonderful.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Optimus was probably frowning behind that mask, the hologram flashing and full of static where it floated next to the hologram of a much more visibly displeased Prowl. </p><p>“What is it, Ultra Magnus? You are, of course, <em>aware</em> of what time it is here.” Of course, he was aware. Ultra Magnus kept one of his internal chronometers permanently synchronized with the time in Iacon. The time it persistently blinked on his Heads-Up Display was obscenely early in the morning, before even he generally rose for his duties.</p><p>Though, he would have been willing to bet money that Prowl had been up anyway. He probably hadn’t even recharged yet. Workaholic. Though Rodimus would have called him a hypocrite for that, Minimus liked to think of himself more as “dedicated” rather than a “workaholic.” He didn’t have a problem. <em>Prowl</em> had a problem. Unless Ultra Magnus was having a graphical glitch, it looked as though Prowl had not yet even bothered visiting a medic to have his optic replaced, the empty orbit a glaring void even on the small holographic projection.</p><p>“Prime,” he began, opting for the title to show this wasn’t a call of convenience or pleasure. Minimus hoped it would help set the necessary professional tone for the discussion and perhaps delay Prowl’s impending explosion. “I have an urgent report regarding our stopover on Caminus.”</p><p>“An ‘urgent update’ on your <em>vacation</em>?” If this was how Prowl was going to react to even mundane information, Minimus felt certain he would be taking the actual update itself like Rodimus had decided to kidnap Megatron and elope to escape handing their friend over to Prowl. Wait. No, that was a bridge too far. Hopefully. Sometimes Minimus had to wonder what the limit was for Rodimus’ schemes, or if a limit even existed.</p><p>“Yes, well, the timeline of our return to Cybertron will need to be… <em>revised</em>.” It was the most diplomatic way he could think of phrasing the fact that the timeline was no functionally unknowable.</p><p>“Revised? How so, old friend?” The congeniality in Optimus’ voice always made Minimus’ spark sink. He’d yet to find the courage to tell his ‘old friend’ the truth of his identity, but now was <em>definitely</em> not the time. One day… One day. Ultra Magnus folded his hands together in front his chest on the table, unwilling to be seen fidgeting.</p><p>“Rodimus has run into an <em>interesting</em> situation with the local authorities.”</p><p>“Has he been arrested?” He could practically feel Optimus mentally preparing to wire bail money already.</p><p>“No, <em>no</em>, far from it. He’s… he’s being hailed as a deity by the locals. He has agreed to undergo a series of tests of some sort. I’ll submit a written brief with all of the currently available details by sundown local time.”</p><p>“Any idea when you’ll be able to resume your schedule?” Ever professional, that Optimus. Well, a solid ninety point zero three percent of the time anyway. Minimus used to think it was a trait borne of carrying the Matrix of Leadership, but after spending any amount of time with Rodimus, he was quickly disabused of the notion. Then again Optimus didn't seem exactly <em>surprised</em>, but as a Prime who has interacted with Camiens before, he likely knew how his protégé was being viewed. Perhaps he could provide some valuable insight… at a different time.</p><p>“No, not at this time.” He shook his head, regretting that he didn’t have more solid information on that matter. Indeterminate schedules always caused him a measure of anxiety.</p><p>“I don’t see how this affects the original timeline <em>at all</em>.” Prowl’s sharp voice cut through the calm atmosphere Optimus and Ultra Magnus had been trying to maintain. “Simply <em>leave</em> Rodimus behind until his business concludes. The ship and Megatron can be returned per the original agreement. It's not like that <em>libertine</em> has the only set of keys." <em>That</em> epithet for the captain was excessive but now wasn't the time for Ultra Magnus to defend him from Prowl, who had yet to finish his rant.</p><p>"Rodimus can be granted clearance to take the Camien space bridge back to Cybertron when he’s finally done fooling around.”</p><p>“Commander, I’m afraid there is a complication with some of that. You see, Megatron is… <em>accompanying</em> Rodimus for the duration of these tests.”</p><p>“<em>Why?</em>” The twitch in Prowl’s remaining optic spoke to his barely suppressed lividity.</p><p>It was either going to be now or when Prowl would read the full brief. There was no avoiding it. Better now than later. He took a deep ventilation and paused, trying to ignore the livid little hologram glaring daggers at him from the top of the commlink. “Well, Commander,” he began, “the complication is as follows….” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When Prowl’s hologram disappeared from the commlink in a hail of static before it fritzed out, he could only assume the commander took the news that Megatron was being asked to pose as Rodimus’ consort-protector as well as could be expected. And that Optimus would shortly have yet another requisition request in hand for a new desk.</p><p>Optimus' expression was inscrutable, even to Ultra Magnus' trained eyes. He too surely must have had <em>some</em> sort of opinion on the situation. There was no way he could be completely neutral to this outcome. He’d known Megatron since before the war. Optimus had even once claimed “responsibility” for Megatron after the mech had first surrendered himself to their custody, whatever that entailed. Whatever it was that was hidden behind the mask, however, the Prime was keeping to himself.</p><p>"Please keep us apprised of the situation, Ultra Magnus. I will also try to follow up with the local authorities to try and get a clearer picture of… all of this." Hopefully, he wouldn’t divulge Rodimus’ deception in the process, but Optimus tended to have more tact and forethought than that. Generally. Or so Minimus sincerely hoped.</p><p>The comm finally cut after formal goodbyes, leaving him looking at nothing more than the shifting, empty blue ring at the top of the device. Ultra Magnus turned the commlink off and sighed, leaning back in his chair with his palms pressed to the faceplate of his armor. Just what had Rodimus gotten them all into this time?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"You didn't have to scare off the guard, you know." </p><p>Megatron did <em>not</em> scare off the guard. The guard ran off of his own accord. Embarrassing really, given that he had been guarding the hall towards the Mistress of Flame's office. Still, he didn't offer much by way of protest to Rodimus' rebuke as they left the temple building, heading for the grounds for a late afternoon walk. Stretching their legs after being stuck in the habsuite all day had been Rodimus' idea. Megatron had decided it was enough of an excuse to go ask for a replacement of the instructional information his co-captain had inadvertently destroyed. In order to preserve Rodimus’ dignity, he had covered for his friend and told their hostess that <em>he</em> had dropped it, which had caused the fragile datapad to crack.</p><p>"He tried to take my surgical kit," he started, walking a few paces behind his companion. "What if there had been a <em>medical emergency</em>, Rodimus?"</p><p>"It looks like a fucking <em>cannon</em>, doc." Rude. And strictly he wasn’t licensed. "Besides, he would have just let me pass, no questions asked. You <em>could</em> have waited in hall." Why in the hell would he have wanted to wait in the hall? What if he had been needed? "<em>And</em> the odds of a medical emergency in the high priestess’ office are kinda, you know, <em>low</em>." </p><p>Sure, his kit looked like a cannon, at a distance, but it was a convenient shape for easily carrying his tools. It was just a shame he couldn't store more than a few common medications in there, due to the bulky shape of many medbay supplies. You could only take the <em>essentials</em> with you into the field, of course. Besides, the kit was lighter than an actual fusion cannon by about half if not by more. Not that Rodimus would know that quite so <em>instinctively</em> as he did, Megatron supposed.</p><p>"It's not <em>my</em> fault if the guards here scare easily from being <em>looked</em> at. The security here is too skittish to be effective. They need better training. Furthermore, how do they expect me to protect you without being armed?" The fact that he actually wasn't armed was besides the point.</p><p>"You scowled at him like you were going to wear his lifecord as a bandolier." </p><p>Rodimus waved the newly acquired replacement datapad in the air as he talked, nearly smacking it against a piece of decorative sculpture—what looked to be a mech pouring flames from an amphora in her arms—on the grounds as they passed by. Megatron winced at the thought of having to go back and getting yet <em>another</em> one. If he wasn't careful, the protective casing they put the datapad in would only help so much. No amount of preventative measures could stop the young Prime from breaking something if he really felt like it… or wasn't paying enough attention. Honestly that was the most likely outcome, Rodimus either breaking some unfortunate object… or, worse, himself. The weight of the surgical kit seemed to tug more on his arm at the thought.</p><p>"That's… Rodimus, that's… that's just <em>my face</em>." Megatron didn't really <em>think</em> he had quite the off-putting face, but Rodimus <em>did</em> once tell him he could frown in a way that would make Decepticons simply quit the field. It was doubtful that really applied here though. He shook his head even though Rodimus couldn't see him, prancing around on the path ahead like a new-build who just discovered he had legs.</p><p>"You've known me for <em>years</em>." Sure, most of those years were in the middle of a seemingly endless civil war, but it had been a long time of <em>acquaintance</em>.</p><p>"Yeah, I guess. I mean, you <em>definitely</em> looked more <em>gleeful</em> when you shot me into space with your one-size-fits-all 'surgical kit' back in the day."</p><p>Now that was uncalled for—well, he <em>had</em> definitely done that. They had been at war. The scoundrel had snuck into the base… and made the literally fatal mistake of running right into Megatron in particularly malicious mood. It felt like a lifetime ago. Though he supposed for Rodimus it was decidedly less long ago. Eight hundred and nineteen years less to be precise. As far as Megatron knew, there had been no lasting physical damage as result of the Prime reformat, but…. He couldn't argue. There was no room for it. No time. Rodimus was, ultimately, right <em>this time</em>.</p><p>Just this time.</p><p>"Shouldn't our—" He stopped to correct himself, lagging even further behind as Rodimus bounced away to cursorily look at another of the art pieces—the one an abstract statue of a small mech holding a sword overhead defensively—decorating the grounds. "—<em>your</em> time be spent preparing for the trial instead of gallivanting around the temple grounds like some kind of nosy tourist?"</p><p>"Fire is <em>easy</em>. Why worry?" But what if it wasn't that simple? In fact, Megatron felt certain it wouldn't be. There had to be more to the trial than that. If only Rodimus would hand that datapad over, he could <em>help</em>.</p><p>"Did you even read the brief?"</p><p>"Well, I <em>saw</em> it. Close enough."</p><p>One day, Rodimus was going to die from something like this. Something stupid that could have been avoided if only he looked before he leaped—</p><p>"<em>Oh! Hey!</em>"</p><p>The speedster took off without warning, veering around a corner of the elaborately painted building. Dammit. Megatron hurried to follow but he knew there was no way his legs would ever keep up. He had never been particularly <em>fleet of foot</em>, and Rodimus was, sometimes unfortunately, a speed demon when he felt like it.</p><p>Luckily, he didn't have to go far. After rounding the corner, he saw Rodimus but a few meters ahead. Leaning an arm on the wall, he took a few moments to let his engine slow back down.</p><p>"This one looks like a <em>giant</em> hardline!" </p><p>What?</p><p>Rodimus turned right at the moment to look back at him over his shoulder, as though hearing the silent question. With a big, goofy, toothy grin, he pointed at the lewd, yet artistic statue, bouncing up and down on his feet. Perhaps the Camiens had different notions of “appropriate in public.”</p><p>"… So it does."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Prowl knew he shouldn't have agreed to Rodimus' <em>stupid</em> request. It only gave that foolhardy excuse of an Autobot to try and weasel out of a situation that didn't suit him, no regard for anything or anyone else. They needed that stupid ship and even more than that, they <em>needed</em> that criminal that had made the last four millions years an absolute <em>hell</em> for the galaxy. </p><p>Now Prowl had to clean up the mess he'd let happen, against his own best instincts. A moment of soft-sparked sentimentality had gotten the best of him. The stupid sparkling masquerading as a captain had tugged on his spark cables <em>just</em> right. He had seen the youthful determination in Rodimus' stance and had thought of a fresh-faced Springer. His hand absently found the empty optic socket on his face, fingertips ghosting over the jagged gap. Broken wiring in the wound occasionally arced with ungrounded current, causing jolts of pain, but Prowl soldiered through it all.</p><p>With a frustrated growl, Prowl yanked open the drawer of his toppled desk. Documents and supplies had to be salvaged before the replacement desk was procured. Datapads spilled out haphazardly onto the floor and upturned on the face of the ill-fated furniture. These <em>had</em> been organized before he had let his blasted temper get the best if him again. Maybe one of these days he would learn. Maybe. Though the probabilities that he calculated told him it was… unlikely under current circumstances.</p><p>Megatron was their meal ticket to peacefully rejoining the galactic community, a sacrifice, an apologetic olive branch to be offered to the Galactic Council. Cybertron, and its newly reacquainted colonies, <em>needed</em> the support if they had a chance of rebuilding and surviving. Was it so wrong to want what was best for his home? For his people? And if Prowl got a little vindication and cathartic satisfaction out of trying and executing the guy that had <em>ruined his life</em>, that was just a <em>bonus</em>. At this point, he felt like, for all of his sacrifices and hard work, that was the <em>least</em> owed to him.</p><p>Datapads were hastily scooped up from where they'd fallen before Prowl slammed the drawer shut with his foot with rather more force than necessary. </p><p><em>Crack!</em> </p><p>Sure, he probably just did <em>more</em> damage to it, but it was about to be scrapped and replaced anyway. The material could still be recycled and salvaged. With a huff, Prowl tossed the datapads into a box on the floor nearby. He could reorganize them later, after the sun came up.</p><p>It had taken a fair amount of convincing Optimus that this was the best option, that he should have Prowl heading to Caminus as soon as diplomatically possible to ensure things went smoothly, to expedite the situation wherever possible, and to, nominally, make sure Rodimus wasn't being manipulated by a criminal mastermind. Prowl didn't really have an equoid in that particular race, but Optimus certainly did. If Prowl could dig up evidence of something… untoward, that would give him the leverage to pull the plug on both this inane 'victory lap' <em>and</em> the all-too-convenient trip extension.</p><p>Rodimus was up to something. Even if <em>he</em> wasn't, Prowl was willing to bet his last shanix that Megatron certainly was. The bastard couldn't be trusted, no matter how much he batted those sad red optics at Optimus, couching everything in faux remorse and regret. The ‘woe is me, I strayed from my noble purpose’ routine was complete bovoid slag. It had been foolish to ever put someone like Megatron on a ship with an impressionable Rodimus. They should have kept that monster locked in a cell, preferably with his vocalizer turned off—or better yet <em>removed</em> altogether— so he couldn’t use his gift of gab to talk his way out. The old warlord was a master manipulator, and, well, Prowl would say that <em>he</em> himself was <em>uniquely</em> qualified to know how someone like that operated.</p><p>A small hope surfaced in his processor that Prowl might convince Rodimus that he was being foolish and that cooperating would be for the best, for himself and for everyone else. Maybe even for Megatron. That would make things go more smoothly and maybe… Rodimus wouldn’t <em>resent</em> him from what he had to do. The odds were astronomically low, but the second-in-command couldn’t convince himself to fully divest it of mental resources.</p><p>
  <em>"No one is doing this 'cos they want you to be okay... all you are to <strong>us</strong>—to <strong>anyone</strong>— is a <strong>valuable asset</strong> that needs to be secured. And what's what we do. We're <strong>only</strong> saving you because of <strong>what</strong> you are, not <strong>who</strong> you are."</em>
</p><p>Kup’s words still echoed in his head, prompting his simulations to plummet the odds of an easy outcome in his favor even further. Prowl winced from an arcing current in his damaged eye socket.</p><p>Turning to a cabinet on the wall, the first officer flung the door open wide, revealing all manner of standard and some less-than-regulation armaments. Sometimes it was worth frisking troublemakers and confiscating their contraband. As tempting as it would be to bring some of the more interesting devices, he knew he would have limited space. The simpler the better, he thought, holstering a regulation blaster. Nothing too fancy. Besides, he knew how to aim to put a mech down, no matter how thick their plate. Prowl was no new-build who barely knew what end of the gun was the business end.</p><p>If the Camiens objected to his being armed, he would simply explain that he was granted permission by their <em>beloved</em> Optimus Prime, to fulfill his mandate.</p><p>"<em>As a last resort,</em>" Optimus had told him after the comm with Ultra Magnus, but he had provided the necessary approval. He just didn't need to explain the mandate in detail. It was just a shame Optimus didn't understand things the way Prowl did. One day. One day Optimus would see the world like Prowl did and recognize all of he’d done for them all.</p><p>By this time tomorrow, Prowl intended to step through that space bridge on Caminus, the first time since the incident with Devastator. And he intended to be prepared. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Megatron had not been <em>enthused</em> to be restricted to the temple grounds for <em>yet another</em> day, especially since he knew tomorrow would also end up with more of the same. Even if they had been granted a somewhat provisional time extension by the machinations of the universe, he still worried some about their time being wasted. The extension, at Optimus’ behest, had been <em>tentative</em> after all. The temple administration had asked them to remain on-site until the conclusion of the first trial, for some reason. Ostensibly for Rodimus’ protection while they settled in, but really, then, what purpose did Megatron serve in their eyes if <em>not</em> that? It was even in the inane title they had forcibly thrust upon him. Then again, staying put meant there were fewer places for his co-captain to run off and do something foolish.</p><p>The running off portion was entirely unnecessary.</p><p>“I’ve got it this time. I’m gonna do it—”</p><p>Rodimus had decided that morning he wanted to <em>master</em> gymnastics, starting with cartwheels. Several hours later, they were <em>still on cartwheels</em>. Somehow. Where did he get the energy to keep up these shenanigans for hours on end? At least he had the sense to not ask Megatron to also join in on the exercises. He had no interest in embarrassing himself today.</p><p>“Megs, you’re not looking!”</p><p>“I’m looking,” he said absently, decidedly keeping his optics trained on the datapad of Camien poetry in his hand, while he sat on one of the benches placed around the temple grounds. Megatron had managed to pilfer the collection from the temple’s library after having Rodimus distract one of the Torchbearers with purposefully stupid questions. A few groups of Torchbearers had been stationed throughout the temple campus, each team wearing matching paint, which made them easy to identify. Potentially useful information for later.</p><p>“No, you’re not! <em>Watch!</em>” Rodimus could be heard blowing a raspberry in his general direction, a decidedly immature act even for his co-captain. How anyone thought <em>this</em> mech was a <em>god</em> was entirely beyond him. Megatron still could not <em>begin</em> to fathom it, at least not if what they were hoping for was mature sagacity. Still, he couldn't help but find the playfulness of it all somewhat charming.</p><p>“I’m gonna get it right this time! It'll be the coolest thing you ever saw!” </p><p>Like the past couple of hundred times where he certainly had <em>not</em> gotten it right and landed flat on his brightly-painted behind. There was going to be a dent or two from how often he hit the ground and Rodimus would most certainly <em>not</em> be getting his help to fix it. By now Megatron had simply gotten tired of watching Rodimus eat pebbles.</p><p>His co-captain seemed to be willing to do <em>anything</em> to avoid reading the trial brief. This procrastination was only going to bite the fool in the aft later, but <em>no, no one</em> listened to <em>him</em>. Really, Rodimus was too old for this sort of thing, but Megatron had seen him play dead to get out of answering difficult questions on numerous occasions. Not preparing was probably going to have consequences and he was <em>sure</em> Rodimus already knew that. He wasn’t <em>stupid</em>, despite his behavior. Reminding him at any point that morning had done Megatron absolutely zero favors, earning him only displeased pouts and the ever-present refrain of “it’s fine” and “I got it.” Sure. Though he had to wonder how much of the procrastination was willful arrogance and how much was potentially something else.</p><p>Hearing a loud whoop, Megatron looked up to the gravel-covered area, where Rodimus had decided to practice his performance, to see his friend standing there, arms outstretched over his head in victory.</p><p>
  <em>“I did it!”</em>
</p><p>And he hadn't been looking. Dammit.</p><p>And he'd been caught not looking by the time he tore his gaze from the datapad to finally see the goings on.</p><p>Rodimus fixed him with a mock upset stare and an accusatory index finger aimed right at his chest.</p><p>“You weren’t watching! Dude, what the heck. I thought we were cool!”</p><p>There was no winning here. It would be best to just take it on the chin and move on.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Rodimus. I’m looking now.” He sighed, shoulders slumped in defeat. “Go ahead and do it once more.”</p><p><em>“Fine!”</em> The smaller mech scrunched up his face bitterly and threw up his hands, like he was only begrudgingly doing this for Megatron’s benefit and for absolutely no other reason. That was patently untrue. They both knew how much Rodimus enjoyed showing off. Still, he always did find <em>something</em>—he had no idea what—appealing about that faux grumpy expression. “Just don’t blink or you’ll miss how awesome I am. <em>Again.</em>”</p><p>Another sigh escaped him as he set the datapad aside to ensure Rodimus <em>knew</em> without question that now he had Megatron’s <em>undivided</em> attention.</p><p>Golden hands up high overhead, the red mech threw himself forward. Palms hit the ground first, the placement of one miscalculated. There was a sharp, static-filled yelp followed by an aft slamming into the gravel at speed.</p><p>“<em>Slag!</em>”</p><p>Even if he hadn’t been looking, the <em>tone</em> alone in that swear would have summoned Megatron to sprint across the yard. In a few panicked spark spins, he was already kneeling on the rough stones next to where Rodimus had pushed himself into a sitting position. The hurt right wrist was cradled by Rodimus’ left hand. Shame the fool was right-handed. It was going to be awkward for the normally incredibly animated captain. Certain gestures would be off-limits. Hopefully all of the rude ones.</p><p>The injury itself didn't seem to be serious, not at first glance anyway. There were no obvious leaking fluids, though that didn’t mean there wasn’t internal leakage. Still, at worst Rodimus would be in a bit of pain for a day or two and have some difficulty moving that particular wrist. He would be alright, unless the former warlord’s years of medical experience from the Warren was mistaken. The frantic spin of Megatron’s spark slowed down as he gave his co-captain a quick visual once-over.</p><p>Immediate concern dissipated, Megatron allowed himself to take in the general state of his “patient” on the off-chance anything else was amiss. </p><p>Gravel had probably not been the best choice of ground cover for Rodimus to throw himself around on. He was covered in little scratches and dents, dust coated and marred his normally vibrant plating. Pebbles had lodged themselves into some of his seams and there were probably more that weren't immediately visible to the unaided optic. Those would definitely cause irritation if they were not removed. While he was here, he supposed he could also take care of that, at least some of it. He did have a magnifier and the necessary tweezers in his kit. Rodimus would still have to buff the scratches out himself. Or at least, he <em>should</em>, for propriety’s sake.</p><p>"Strictly, it's <em>unethical</em> for a medic to treat a family member in most circumstances," he said, already unrolling his surgical kit on the ground without regard for what he had just said. "However, unless you'd either like me to call Ratchet, Velocity, or First Aid, we may not have much choice." Who knew where any of the <em>Lost Light's</em> medics were right now anyway. Besides it wasn't an emergency and strictly… they <em>weren't</em> family. <em>Yet</em>—No.</p><p>Except to onlookers thanks to Rodimus' stupid, stupid lie.</p><p>Megatron wasn't exactly in a position to destroy their ruse by shouting the truth and generally, in his experience, no one tended to care except other physicians. Also there were no onlookers on the relatively quiet temple complex, not that he was aware of at least. He would have just been confessing their inane deception into the void. </p><p>Rodimus was already holding out his injured limb expectantly so unless he was feeling particularly cruel today, he couldn't say no. If only he'd just <em>stop</em> making that kicked turbo-puppy face. That was unnecessary. He'd been meaning to help <em>anyway</em>. The guilt was uncalled for.</p><p>"Just… give it here," he said, already pulling a soldering tool out of the kit at his side. He could at least get a start adhering loosened bits and bolts back into place. Though after taking the hurt wrist in hand, what confused him the most was how Rodimus’ arm seemed to relax in his grasp. “Luckily your insurance covers house-calls.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Prowl's arrival the afternoon the day after his phone call with High Command had been an unpleasant surprise for Minimus. Optimus had commed him via the device on his desk aboard the <em>Lost Light</em> late in the morning to inform him. Special clearance had been received from the Camien authorities to permit Prowl's presence, with a few provisos, of course. After the incident with Devastator, it only made sense that he wouldn't be granted unrestricted access to Caminus, which was already rather vulnerable. Prowl was barred from bringing his questionably loyal Constructicons along and he was barred from lodging off of the <em>Lost Light</em>. </p><p>Minimus was also not looking forward to having to spend more time in the Magnus armor, given that, officially, Prowl was unaware of the former enforcer's true identity and the real fate of the original Ultra Magnus. None of that hindered his professionalism, from greeting Prowl with a politely neutral "commander" and subtle incline of the head at the space-bridge, to leading him through the halls of the <em>Lost Light</em> to the unoccupied habsuite that he would be allotted to use as his office and quarters while on his assignment.</p><p>Watching Prowl poke around the habsuite, as though it were laden with bugs or explosive devices, Minimus could only hope that he wouldn't cause much of a disruption to the few mechs who had elected to stay onboard rather than disembark for the duration of their stay. Prowl simply being here would be trouble enough on its own. The last thing they needed was anyone getting spooked. </p><p>Drift silently waited in the hallway, on the off-chance he had to redirect a wandering crew member or explain the situation to the limited degree they had been permitted. Drift, unfortunately, had been dragged along as third-in-command, pulled away from his so far pleasant vacation with Ratchet, all with an avalanche of news to catch up on. Somehow, Minimus was pleased by the knowledge that Rodimus would absolutely be getting an earful later about not saying anything to Drift earlier about what had been going on since they had arrived.</p><p>Luckily Brainstorm and Perceptor had their respective labs soundproofed. Hopefully that would keep Prowl and the off-leash scientists safe from each other. Though, they had passed by one of the labs on the way in, the door left wide open so that all were privy to their debate regarding the nature of white dwarf stars and whether or not they should even be called "stars." </p><p>Chromedome had opted to join Rewind at the hotel, so that was another potential problem avoided, unless Prowl proved himself prone to wandering the city. He did have a tendency to poke where he ought not. That could have posed some… <em>difficulties</em>. </p><p>Ultra Magnus sighed, hands clasped politely behind his back while he waited for some sign of approval from his superior officer.</p><p>Prowl roughly opened a cabinet that was bolted to the wall, scowling at the emptiness inside with his one remaining eye. Tempted as Minimus was to ask, he kept the armor's mouth shut. Best not to pry into what was likely a personal matter for an already <em>volatile</em> individual.</p><p>"Prime couldn't contact your 'captains' to verify the situation," he started, unprompted.</p><p>"No, they are currently being asked to remain at their local lodgings and so they don't have access to the long-range commlinks." Rodimus' phone and both captains' wrist commlinks had relatively limited range. </p><p>"How <em>convenient</em>. Of course they're <em>incommunicado</em>."</p><p>"I was able to inform them of your arrival. I received approval for your accommodations on the ship from them directly." Instead of reassuring Prowl that all was in order, every box next to steps of protocol checked appropriately, this seemed to only deepen the commander's suspicions as he gave the room another skeptical look.</p><p>"I'm sure you did."</p><p>"If you wish, I'm sure I could arrange a meeting with them if you find something lacking."</p><p>Prowl muttered something under his breath about "lacking an execution date" but Minimus decided against addressing it. He didn't want to aggravate him further, not at this juncture.</p><p>Ultra Magnus cleared his vocalizer with a cough, mumbling a perfunctory "excuse me a moment" before stepping back out into the hall.</p><p>"Drift?"</p><p>The race car stood up a bit straighter, saying nothing and still looking rather displeased at having to play host to Prowl, of all mechs. There was some bad blood between them—not that there are many who could say they <em>didn't</em> where Prowl was concerned—mostly notably the Overlord incident and Minimus saw so need to prolong Drift's discomfort. The fact that what could be safely said had limits certainly didn't assist with the mood. That and Prowl loudly slamming open drawers and whatever other storage devices had the misfortune of ending up in this particular habsuite.</p><p>"I have the situation handled from here. Thank you for your assistance. You're dismissed." There was a pause where neither mech moved. Drift's gaze dropped to the floor and Ultra Magnus instinctively looked down to see if there was some sort of smudge or something on the floor.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>Hm. So it wasn't tidiness that drove the motion. Of course not.</p><p>"I'm sure Rodimus would like to see you."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Prowl had limited options for accommodations on this sorry colony. However, being housed on the <em>Lost Light</em> would certainly suit his needs. If anything, it would give him easy access to gather data, especially while the actual command crew of the vessel were planetside for the duration of this little “vacation.” His credentials would get him most places he could want to be on this ship, but he would still need to work to access certain types of data. Though he wouldn't hesitate to go around protocol if needed to get any of the evidence he required. Drift and Ultra Magnus had left him to get settled over an hour ago, leaving him in relative peace for the time being. Though he hadn't missed the glare and barely repressed snarl on Drift's face. Rodimus collected these rough ex-'Cons like some slightly more <em>normal</em> bots collected model ships or used postage.</p>
<p>Despite having checked and rechecked the facilities he had been provided—a small-ish habsuite with a desk with a most likely monitored commlink, cabinet, barren recharge slab, and tiny wash rack—multiple times, Prowl still wasn’t satisfied that the habsuite wasn’t bugged or otherwise rigged to hinder his goals. There would have been plenty of time for the good captains to arrange a <em>little something</em> for the visiting commander. Maybe some sort of dampening device to interfere with private communications or something to hamper his ability to recharge. Not that he really needed help with the latter problem. <em>Something</em> surely!</p>
<p>The spartan recharge slab of a berth he had seated himself on was also an improvement over the low-tech cot he kept in his office back in Iacon. The cot didn’t even have recharge cables, meaning that normally he had to rely on the inefficiency of unaided recharge. It was tempting for Prowl to simply flop down and plug in for a few hours. Just for a few. Then he would get back to work. He could practically hear Ratchet’s voice in the back of his processor complaining that he wasn’t resting enough.</p>
<p>Unfortunately there was no time to sleep right now, Prowl chastised himself, no matter the fact that he had hardly rested in the past few days. He’d stayed up the entirety of the previous night, left Iacon in the wee hours of the predawn morning, and in seconds had been flung into the harsh light of the Camien afternoon. An <em>unenviable</em> jet lag. Exhaustion pulled at the circuits responsible for keeping his optic online, urging him to at least offline it for just a little while. No. Now was not the time. He… had work to do.</p>
<p>Voices drifted down the hallway outside the closed door to his habsuite. Neither of them particularly familiar though one he had certainly heard before. Easing off of the mediocre berth, he slunk across the floor to press the his audial to the cold surface of the door.</p>
<p>"Do you think it'll work?" One of the voices was higher in pitch, likely one of the minibots on the crew manifest based on the sound cues. Prowl couldn’t place the voice with a name or a face, however. Just more variables to consider in evaluating the situation, but he could just always cross-reference the manifest records later.</p>
<p>"I'm certain it will. Now we need but hide it." <em>Cyclonus</em>. Yes, Prowl recognized this one. The one who attacked Kimia right before… Cybertron woke up, for lack of a better way to put it. He felt like he ought to be surprised that Cyclonus hadn’t been jailed after his role in Galvatron’s plans, but apparently they were in the habit of letting war criminals—unlike himself—just walk around and go about their lives, if the weak excuse of a leash they had put Megatron on was any indication.</p>
<p>But what were these two misfits hiding? Suspicious.</p>
<p>“But if we hide it—”</p>
<p>“No, we’ll only hide it until it’s time to give it to him.”</p>
<p><em>Him</em>? Who? An innocent explanation would have been a gift to another crew member, presumably a friend. A more likely explanation? Something rather more sinister. Prowl wasn't predisposed to assuming the worst of people's intentions, no, not at all. Statistically people just <em>had</em> the worst intentions and he needn't <em>assume</em> a damn thing. Besides this ship was captained by an allegedly "formerly" violent megalomaniac and a thrill-seeking arrogant show-off for <em>years</em>. Primus knows what they managed to establish as expected norms on this stupid, Primus-forsaken tub.</p>
<p>Prowl slumped against the door, offlining the one optic he still had to better focus on the sounds of the footsteps and accompanying voices going down the hallway. He would certainly be… <em>busy</em> here on Caminus.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Knowing Prowl was lurking around on Caminus now, specifically with access to the <em>Lost Light</em> itself, did little for Megatron’s ability to recharge, among other reasons to be kept up at night. He laid there, staring up at the ceiling with a hardened scowl as though it had done something personally offensive to him. Somehow Rodimus was managing it, snoring with his limbs scattered about wherever there was space for them on the cushioned slab, occasionally rolling over and carelessly smacking a limb against his companion’s heavily-armored side. It didn’t hurt, of course, but it certainly didn’t qualify as <em>soothing</em>.</p>
<p>Megatron been a little surprised that Prowl hadn’t demanded to see them as soon as he arrived on the colony moon, especially since he’d been sent as a sort of handler… a nanny. He huffed indignantly at the very thought. It was as though Optimus thought the captains were a pair of naïve sparklings in need of supervision, likely as not to get into trouble when no one was watching. Well, that wouldn’t entirely <em>unfounded</em>. A glance at the constantly-wriggling pile of bright armor at his side was more than enough to remind him of that. Then again, perhaps he had official business to tend to first before making himself a direct nuisance or other machinations to oversee. The latter was more likely and the more unsettling of the options.</p>
<p>The afternoon had been interesting, the first time they had managed to see any member of the crew since the Mistress of Flame had invited them to fuel with her in the middle of the night. A somewhat agitated Drift had shown up at their door, bereft of his usual armaments. Presumably his swords were being watched over by the guards while he had been on an escorted visit to the Prime.</p>
<p>Despite Drift's sour expression upon arrival, it had been a pleasant surprise for Rodimus who had complained earlier in the day that he hadn't had a chance to catch up with his best friend. Though with half of a unit of Torchbearers in the hall, some things couldn't have been said. Drift had cast Megatron a questioning look more than once while he tried to hang back in the suite, away from the door so as not to crowd.</p>
<p>After Drift had reunited with the crew, for what he thought were understandable reasons, they didn't really make much effort to talk or become reacquainted. It had been too strange, even though both had defected. Megatron figured there wouldn't have been enough time to unpack everything and appropriately deal with it. There still wasn't time. Neither of them were the same people who had worn badges made from parts of their spark chambers and Megatron had no interest in causing additional strain to the former assassin's close friendship with Rodimus. It wasn't his place.</p>
<p>And so he had sat on the edge of the berth, pretending to read quietly while Rodimus acted out an exaggerated, hyperbolic summary of events. He only winced occasionally from the injury to his wrist, but it had still been troubling to witness.</p>
<p>Though Drift had only remained for half an hour, throughout the entire visit, it remained incredibly obvious that Rodimus wasn't taking these trials seriously. Or at least that was how it seemed. Something else was off but he couldn't place it. Was Rodimus just trying to ignore the situation and wing it? It was as though the anxiety that <em>should</em> have been driving the young Prime to preparing so he could do well had been shunted to Megatron instead. Now the circuits in his hands and fingers twitched with excess electrical current, needing to do <em>something</em> to dispel the buildup. This vicarious disquiet was a special frustration all on its own, as someone who really only had limited control of the situation. He was basically window-dressing in the eyes of the Camiens, an intimidating accessory to lurk over Rodimus' shoulder. Yet another troubling feeling to add to the mess, but not one that required immediate attention. That part mostly bothered Rodimus anyway. Megatron only cared that his co-captain had been upset enough that he felt the need to take some kind of action.</p>
<p>This was getting them nowhere. Someone had to know what was expected of Rodimus tomorrow evening. Simply ignoring the situation and hoping for the best would do them absolutely no good. Luckily his co-captain had taken the datapad containing the trial brief out of his subspace earlier in the evening and had placed it on the sidetable next to the berth.</p>
<p>Cautiously, Megatron unplugged himself from the recharge cables and sat up, not wanting to disturb his sleeping companion. Leaning, he slowly reached one arm over Rodimus’ prone form to pick up the datapad. As he closed his hand over the edge of the datapad, his other hand inadvertently brushed warm plating, causing the race car to stir and mumble incoherently.</p>
<p><em>Slag</em>.</p>
<p>He frantically pulled back to his side of the berth with the datapad in hand. With uncharacteristically soft shushing noises, he placed his free hand on Rodimus’ arm and gave it a ginger pat. Being gentle was confusing and unnatural. If he was honest, he only understood how it worked in <em>theory</em> and in <em>poetry</em>. It was a shame they didn’t manage to locate any tarpaulins. He couldn’t pull one up and snugly tuck his friend in to soothe him back into a blissful recharge. A hopefully comforting pat would have to do.</p>
<p>Rodimus rolled to the side, spoiler fins automatically tucked up high against his back to prevent bending, as he wrapped his arms tightly around that patting hand and arm, capturing the older captain like a sparkling with a favorite soft toy.</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh no.</em>
</p>
<p>This was a <em>problem</em>. The only way he would be getting that arm back any time soon would require him to commit a crime worse than any he’d committed before: waking a beautiful—<em>no</em>—sleeping god.</p>
<p>And then the justly deserved penance would be having to listen to Rodimus complain about being unable to sleep for the next few hours until he exhausted himself. Maybe, Megatron thought. Just maybe he could read the datapad by dimming the brightness and holding very, <em>very</em> still. That would do.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And so at long last, the <i>real</i> nonsense begins.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The doors leading out of the soundproofed antechamber opened wide, allowing them passage into the gaping hall of this portion of the temple. Torchbearers ensured the mass of the audience parted ways to allow Rodimus and his “consort-protector” through. Not that they really needed the help with his buddy’s capacity to be “accidentally” threatening. Megatron certainly was lucky to have an understanding co-captain at hand to assure people that he “didn’t mean it.” The old bastard ought to be <em>grateful</em>. Maybe say “thanks” occasionally or buy him a snack or something. </p><p>Though that familiar looming shadow he’d gotten so used to over the past few days disappeared from behind his shoulder the moment the ring of onlookers had been breached. </p><p>The young Prime reflexively whipped around on his heel, a moment of panic throwing his spark into a wild tailspin. </p><p>Where’d he go? <em>Where’d he go?</em></p><p>Prowl couldn’t have—Then he finally caught sight of a large tank being grumpily shuffled off to the side by their escorts, like he was debating the pros and cons of tossing a guard across the room. He wouldn’t have done it, of course—bless his beloved "principles"—but that didn’t mean the former warlord wouldn’t think about it. For all of the old mech’s professed pacifism, Rodimus found it amusing at just how hard it was to take the millions of years of stubborn orneriness out of him. </p><p>Still without that familiar presence to back him up, the Prime’s "renowned nerves of steel" flinched. Deep down though, he knew this was a one-mech show. Besides, he didn’t used to need the old goat, having been quite the courageous captain <em>all on his own</em> until Optimus just kind of dropped Megatron on him, like some strange hand-me-down.</p><p>Now confident that his friend hadn’t been stolen in broad daylight by a vindictive commander, he released a ventilation he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He wasn’t worried. Who was worried? No one probably, but definitely <em>not</em> Rodimus. Calm and collected. Practically his middle name. Oh yeah. He had this in the bag.</p><p>At last, figuring that he’d probably stalled enough this one time, Rodimus allowed himself to be taken to the middle of the room where the Mistress of Flame stood next to a small spread of foreign, at first glance, ritual objects on a table. All part of the spectacle, he supposed, not really looking at any of the items. A bowl and some random stuff. <em>Great, whatever</em>. </p><p>Since before they had been brought out here—since this morning at least—he had felt a tension, a pent up energy in his circuits. That tension still lingered, no matter how much he had psyched himself up in the mirror or how much he had reiterated to Megatron just how <em>ready</em> he was and how <em>awesome</em> this was going to be. All of this made his hands shake just the teeniest, tiniest bit. No one would notice, right? Of course not. He wasn’t scared though. No, no. He was much too cool to be scared. This was fine. He was just excited and he’d power through this like he did everything else: with steely confidence and natural skill. Right? Right.</p><p>Of course, their hostess would say something soon, start the whole thing off with <em>a grand speech of some kind. Blah blah blah. Let her. The room was literally calling for</em> him, curious Camiens and his own “Crusadercons” alike. Swerve should have been ashamed of himself for coming up with that dorky name, but, Primus, if it didn’t apply to their team.</p><p>Rodimus turned his back on the Mistress of Flame for the moment, casting his eyes over the tangle of bots—easily a couple of hundred of them, more probably wouldn’t fit—in the dimly lit chamber. He waved his hands at them all excitedly, both in a bid to be friendly and personable but also to help with the energy building in his circuits. He wondered for a moment if even more people were waiting on the street and grounds outside, unable to squeeze themselves inside to watch the proceedings. Just… how big of a deal was all of this to the Camiens?</p><p>Well, probably a lot. Gods didn't just show up on your doorstep everyday to take a vacation.</p><p>In the gathered crowd behind and around him, Rodimus couldn't make out most of the onlookers. Most seemed to be local Camiens, faces he didn't recognize and probably a mixture of both the faithful and the skeptical. There were a few bands of Torchbearers scattered about either among the crowd or around the edges of the chamber in the temple. The crowd seemed to almost float and bubble along on the clear top layer of the chamber floor, overlaying an underfloor painted in a flowing circular pattern that spiraled towards a sun in the center. It was strange and a little disorienting. </p><p>Maybe it was just because he'd only been in government or religious buildings since they had gotten here, but so far he'd only really seen this fire and sun motif. It was nice, but if he were being honest, Rodimus was beginning to want more… variety in the decor. As soon as they could leave the temple grounds, he planned on grabbing Megs, with his good wrist for the record, and bailing to be <em>anywhere</em> else on Caminus.</p><p>Some familiar crew members had made an appearance. Rewind's bright camera light could be seen peeking over the sea of bots while he perched on Chromedome's shoulder. He thought he could see the top of Riptide's decking in the far back and Swerve trying to squeeze his way through some locals in the front to see. Tailgate was giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up in the front row, whereas Cyclonus looked on in that dour way of his behind him. He was most likely quite excited actually, likely having been the one to drag Tailgate here. Strange that Whirl wasn't with them. The three of them tended to move in a pack lately. A nearby Drift had brought Ratchet, but he wondered what the third-in-command had promised the medic for attending. Maybe nothing. Maybe Ratchet just wanted to come. Rodimus hoped so. Maybe he could catch up more with Drift afterwards if they weren't too busy.</p><p>Prowl was notably absent. Strange. He had actually been explicitly requested to come. Wasn't this why he bothered to leave Cybertron to snoop around in the first place? Stick his nose where it didn't belong? Brush up on his not-so-covert espionage? Maybe he could convince the Torchbearers to lock Prowl up…. Unlikely, mostly because it would cause an interplanetary incident with a mess he didn't want to be even remotely responsible for cleaning up, but a bout of wishful thinking wasn't a crime.</p><p>Minimus stood there off to the side next to Megatron, dwarfed without his armor to take up all of the visual space. Maybe he was worried he wouldn't fit. Luckily this part of the temple had been built with generous space, so it ultimately didn’t matter <em>too much</em>, since this room was for public gatherings. Or at least, that's what the Mistress of Flame had told him when they had arrived earlier in the evening, having been urged into an antechamber before spectators could pen them in.</p><p>Rodimus was now encircled by the stares of stranger and friend alike. The center of attention. An object of curiosity and awe. And he wasn't sure how he felt about it. A vague nausea had settled in his fuel tank. While he tried to tell himself he was just excited for the undeniably cool thing he was about to do, a little voice in the back of his processor nagged at him for not having read the stupid brief. The stupid, stupid brief.</p><p>Megatron had read it. Of course he did. The bastard always tried to be prepared. By the time Rodimus had been able to wrangle his focus to make use of the under-the-wire pressure, he'd been a bit too late. He had turned on the datapad with only fifteen minutes before they were to then be dragged to the public chamber. Words had passed before his optics as he had tried to cram the knowledge in, willing it to sink in, forcing it to stick in his memory circuits. Yet, in the end, the words had meant nothing. He had been too late, too panicked, too stressed to take anything in because he had let time get so far away from him. <em>Again</em>. He hadn't <em>meant</em> for it to happen. The pressure of it all had made it all the more difficult to get started in the first place, no matter the cool, collected, and carefree façade he had shown the world. Though he wondered how much anyone really believed it. </p><p>Had Megatron noticed? Is that why he read it? Why hadn't he shared the contents with him? Maybe that was related to the <em>unusually</em> long face the other captain wore just across the room, mouth in a downturn and… sad? No, there was a better word for it, he thought. Something pretentious. Melon. Melan. <em>Melancholic.</em> That was it. Melancholic. More so than normal.</p><p>Now Rodimus was mentally kicking himself. <em>Again</em>. Standing there in front of everyone and he hoped he could figure out just what in the hell he was supposed to actually <em>do</em>. </p><p>The loud strike of the Mistress of Flame’s staff against the hard surface of the floor echoed behind him, the din of the crowd dying in an instant. With a jerk he whirled around to face her, as though he hadn’t just been given an unwanted jump-start.</p><p>“Gathered faithful and honored guests,” she began, her voice just as commanding of respect as the sound of her staff colliding with the ground had been. “While having yet another Prime in our midst after the visit of Optimus Prime is already an unprecedented honor, tonight we have the chance to begin the search to know if that honor is a more miraculous blessing.”</p><p>
  <em>Wow.</em>
</p><p>That familiar lightness in his chest returned, from when she had last publicly lauded him in front of the parliament. The feeling practically lifted him up as he held his head high, shoulders back. Still, the lightness fought, <em>wrestled</em> with the unease that had already made itself at home in his processor, in his hands, in his fuel pump.</p><p>“Has our beloved Solus Prime returned to us at last? Hidden in a modern guise?”</p><p>At this point, he fucking hoped so. <em>Better knock their bearings loose</em>, he told himself.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Mistress of Flame’s voice continued to rally the crowd, but Rodimus didn’t really hear her words. Only the grand intonation made it through and even then he wasn’t paying much attention to it. His focus was decidedly elsewhere. Since her initial announcement, his attention had been pulled by the objects on the table next to her. Presumably he’d… need these things to do… something. Something with fire. </p><p>No biggie. </p><p>He could do fire. He’d lit fires before. He’d lit <em>himself</em> on fire before on numerous occasions, but that was kind of different. Probably. He’d so far only ever managed to trigger that in battle or other dangerous situations, and almost never <em>on purpose</em>. Controlling his questionable, "might be an outlier" ability had always been a problem. When folks asked, he tended to say it was a temperamental upgrade. That got most people to stop asking. <em>This</em> situation though certainly didn’t qualify, unless the priestess planned to have him light a fire while swinging that hammer-shaped staff of hers at him. That might be considered sacrilege though. Could he even <em>technically</em> commit sacrilege? Could gods commit sacrilege? Could he declare something <em>she</em> did to be sacrilegious? All great questions, he thought, but better not find out, not today anyway. There was always tomorrow.</p><p>Stepping closer to the spread of tools, Rodimus realized there weren’t actually <em>that</em> many items. Just three things actually. He’d thought at first glance that there had been more, but he hadn’t been <em>actively</em> looking when he’d been brought in the room. The loud crowd and rush of newness had been rather more immediate to his processor than some random thingamajigs.</p><p>A bright gold-looking metal loop, braided together at one side to form a handle, was laid on the left side of the table, nearest the Mistress of Flame. It had clearly been lovingly polished so that it gleamed even in the relatively dim light of the chamber. He reached towards it with his hand, figuring he might as well get started, paying no mind to the fact that the priestess was still talking to the crowd. Before Rodimus could grab the well-shined tool, she snatched it up and held it high overhead for the crowd to see, saying something about “aluminum bronze” and declaring the item a “striker.”</p><p>Ah, that’s right. It looked like one of those primitive tools used to light fire in the wilderness when you didn’t have something better to use, like an arcing wire or a blowtorch or smoldering debris. Smoldering debris was a favorite, but so was using a sparking injury. In the field those were generally readily available. This loop was one of those sorts of things you might find in a field kit. He had never seen one this color though, but maybe it was this color to stay on brand or some thing like that. He also had never actually <em>used</em> a striker in the field. Usually someone else took on that task, but he’d <em>seen</em> it done. Shouldn’t be too hard. Yeah, totally doable.</p><p>The gathered masses made a noise of disbelief when the Mistress of Flame talked for some reason. It was pretty but it wasn’t … weird, was it? Maybe she was explaining the situation but Rodimus just couldn’t center his focus to listen, his circuits itching to get his hands on the striker and do something with it. His optics followed it closely as she held it up, turning it this way and that so that the light through the small ceiling windows reflected off of the angled surface. Pretty. Sparkly. It took every ounce of self-control he could muster to not just leap up and snatch it out of her hand.</p><p>But there was no need.</p><p>In a moment, she calmly held it out to him, a superficially soft smile on her face, like they were playing a game that only she knew the rules to. On impulse, he took it, perhaps a bit too hastily to be polite, but the priestess’ smile didn’t waver even once. Maybe Megatron had been right that she was up to something. Too late to worry about that now though. If she was going to offer him up as a weird mechanical sacrifice, this would be the wrong time and place to do it. He had an adoring public that would probably frown upon some deicide and even if they were in on it… Well, Rodimus knew he had friends, loyal friends who had stuck with him through thick and thin in the room.</p><p>Rodimus idly turned the tool over in his hand, the smooth texture of the braided metal helping keep him grounded as another object from the table was stolen by the priestess for the crowd’s benefit. He followed the motion with his eye.</p><p>A gray stone of some kind with a sharp, blade-like edge, it looked like. The stone was less ornate than the striker but to be fair, he thought, it <em>is</em> a rock. They probably just gave it a polish and called it good enough, but it didn’t catch light the way the striker did. </p><p>“Flint,” the Mistress of Flame called it. That meshed with what he knew about starting a fire the old fashioned way. The ones in field kits were usually more like a manufactured rod or something though. Hit the striker and flint together, <em>bam</em>, sparks everywhere, <em>fire</em>. Easy. He didn’t even bother trying to catch what else she said before she held this item out to Rodimus as well. In a moment, the flint occupied his free right hand. It didn’t occur to him that he might have been holding them backwards. Probably didn’t matter anyway. No problem.</p><p>Just smack them together. Yep. He could do that. Easy peasy. His circuits tingled with too much built up nervous energy. Moving ought to help. Lifting his arm to get a better look at the little rock, he winced, still injured wrist shooting a pain signal straight to his processor, a warning to not be a dumbass. </p><p>The warning would most likely go ignored, but whatever. Rodimus spared the injury a glance, the plating around his wrist somewhat buckled under the patch Megatron had slapped on there. That was for the best. The wiring and circuits underneath did look a little mangled while healing, so best not wave that around exposed for everyone to see. What if the locals were under the impression that gods couldn’t bleed? That could have been a potential issue….</p><p>Hm.</p><p>Oh, that’s right. </p><p>Maybe he could cheat and arc a spark from a snapped wire… if only Megatron had been <em>incompetent</em> in his solder job. Bastard never did half-ass anything.</p><p>Speaking of… Rodimus turned to look over his shoulder at the side of the room where the Torchbearers had herded his buddy. There he was next to poor Minimus, arms crossed and still frowning, but differently than before, a bit more like a scowl. It was almost as though something about the goings on had offended Megatron on some personal level. Oh hell. He felt his spark sink at the sight. It was probably his fault. Usually was. He had a bad habit of pushing Megatron’s buttons.</p><p> Rodimus dropped his gaze to see if he could get a read on their second-in-command. Minimus’ mouth was set into a line, mustache seeming to droop on the ends despite being rigid and unable to actually do that. He could see Minimus leaning up to try and whisper something to the taller captain, who only shook his head in silence. He’d already disappointed them both. At least he didn’t have to hear the nature of his failings specifically. The spin in his spark slowed and an uncomfortably cold feeling spread out from his core.</p><p>“And finally, the bowl of fuel!”</p><p>The Mistress of Flame’s voice called him back from his thoughts.</p><p>Turning back towards her, he felt a little like he must have looked rather lost, having done nothing but twisting this way and that since he got up here.</p><p>All that was left on the table was a bowl, probably some heat resistant alloy of some kind given he was supposed to light its contents on fire, set right in the center. Some sort of black gelatinous something or other filled the bowl. Rodimus felt sorely tempted to kick the table to see how much the fuel would jiggle. That would have been hilarious, but would probably kill the grandiose mood the Mistress of Flame was probably going for. It would certainly distract him from the simmering mixed feelings he was having. Torn between nerves, being a disappointment, and the thrill of being held up for praise, Rodimus wasn't sure what to do with himself. Kicking things <em>usually</em> worked. Then he tended to have a <em>different</em> problem.</p><p>The priestess was still talking in the background, probably explaining what the goop in the bowl was exactly. Oh well. As best as he could guess, it was some sort oil suspended in a gel, a bit of steel wool on top for tinder with some ends seemingly pushed into the gel itself for better contact. Nothing weird probably, despite some members of the audience making noises of disbelief.</p><p>The priestess turned towards him again and said something, that unnaturally serene smile on her delicate, yet stern face. She might have been beautiful if she weren't weirding him out.</p><p>Rodimus shook his head, the words not processing at all.</p><p>“What was that?”</p><p>“Apologies,” she said, in a tone that implied <em>he</em> should apologize but it would have been rude of her to say so. All of this with a faux humble grin and a gracefully inclined head, shoulders lowered in what he supposed was intended to be a sign of deference. Creepy. “Please, when you are ready, Rodimus Prime.”</p><p>“I take it the chances of you <em>not</em> calling me that anymore are pretty slim, huh?” Yeah, the more he talked to her, the less he liked her. Could he leave her a bad review? Would that do anything? It might make him feel better at the least.</p><p>She said nothing and gestured with a poised hand at the bowl. Okay, he’d take that as a “no” combined with a strongly worded “get on with it.”</p><p>"Yeah, alright."</p><p>This was it, he thought, now facing the bowl. Time to do it. He had the tools in hand. The fuel was right there. Every single optic in the room on him. The table had been arranged so that as he stood behind it, or rather in front of it from his own point of view, the audience could see the act. Staring. They were all staring. Judging.</p><p>Their gazes rested heavily upon him. He held his hands up over the bowl, gripping the tools tightly. His wrist twinged, a reminder that he was about to completely ignore.</p><p>He probably looked like an absolute idiot, no matter how much confidence he attempted to project with a sure-footed stance and shoulders held back.</p><p>All he had to do was strike the tools together and a spark would catch the steel wool and… fire. Easy. He could do this. A sparkling could do this. </p><p>His hands were shaking.</p><p>A deep vent in. And out. In. And out.</p><p>This was going to be awesome. <em>This was going to be awesome.</em></p><p>The tools were thrust together with a loud scraping noise, just like he’d seen so many times before in the field.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>No spark. No smolder. <em>No fire.</em></p><p>
  <em>Nothing.</em>
</p><p>Nothing but the sharp pain in his wrist.</p><p>“I must have missed,” he said, awkwardly chuckling off the failure while still gritting his teeth to hide the ache. The bowl of goo sat there impassively, uncaring for his insecurities.</p><p>“Lemme try again. I can do it; it’s fine”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For context per my beta reader:</p><p>Deicide - 1. a person who kills a god. 2. the act of killing a god.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That farce of a first trial was supposed to begin shortly and Prowl didn’t exactly have much time to waste. It was already far too late to try and talk Rodimus out of the trials. Still he maintained hopes that he could at least intervene somewhat and prevent the situation from spiraling wildly out of control. This was complicated, however, by the fact that he hadn’t yet made direct contact with either of the <em>Lost Light’s</em> captains. The delay had already somewhat impeded his investigation and attempts to reign in their shenanigans. This trial would be the first opportunity since arriving on this backwater moon that he could see them or most other members of the crew, who had likely already been informed of his arrival.</p>
<p>Even though he did have <em>other</em> avenues of investigation available, Prowl hadn’t exactly made much by way of progress. This was despite having had nearly a full day to make some sort of headway. After settling into his habsuite slash office, he had tried to convince himself that he needed to get to work, walk the ship, pull data from logs, and maybe even interview—”interrogate” was rather too strong of a word in his opinion—a few of the crew members that had remained aboard the vessel. Unfortunately, after overhearing a suspicious conversation between two crewmen through his door, that simple offlining of his good optic to hear better had been more than enough for his exhausted processor to automatically trigger sleep mode. Prowl had awoken several hours later to find himself slumped awkwardly against the door, joints and plating stiff with aches.</p>
<p>It still hadn’t been a <em>proper</em> recharge but it had certainly given him a much-needed boost, no matter how much he would protest to anyone who might have thought to ask. Not that anyone would have thought to ask.</p>
<p>He stepped off the gangway of the ship with more stomp in each step than was really necessary. Prowl double-checked his internal chronometer, one hand rubbing the side of his aching neck; if only he could get it to pop…. He gasped when he registered the digits, flashing at a calm pace in the corner of his heads-up display without the slightest care for the commander’s schedule. The inefficiency of sleeping without recharge cables and how low on recharge he’d been must have overridden all of his preset alarms. He’d been out nearly an entire day. </p>
<p>What an absolute waste of time. </p>
<p>Who knows what nonsense could have gone on while he’d been passed out cold like some overcharged fresh-faced recruit on their first shore leave.</p>
<p>Prowl looked up at the sky, shielding his face somewhat with one hand. The cool white sun was already beginning to set. Little time remained.</p>
<p>He had to get a handle on this situation starting <em>immediately</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Consulting the map of this particular Camien settlement he had downloaded prior to arriving via the space-bridge, Prowl found himself a little confused about how he had ended up in the marketplace. It wasn’t like him at all to get lost. This didn’t make sense. Had he not calibrated his software for the local coordinate system correctly? Sure, the Camiens used different units and a slightly different positional system than were the standard back on Cybertron. Still the commander was <em>certain</em> that he had already taken that into account. He should have come to the temple before this public market.</p>
<p>The shops for the most part weren’t open at this time of day and the square was full of very little by way of bustle. He closed the map on his HUD with a huff, planting his hands on his hips. There was only about half an hour before the trial started. There wasn’t any time to waste struggling with a <em>clearly malfunctioning</em> program. Being late would do him no favors, neither in the eyes of the locals nor in terms of actually accomplishing his goals.</p>
<p>All of the mobile stalls and temporary stands stood empty, bereft of goods and hawkers alike. The only business going on at this hour was at the restaurants in the permanent buildings alongside the edges of the square. Even then, there wasn’t much happening in the market. A lot public attention had been taken by the trial, with a significant portion of the populace likely already headed in that direction. </p>
<p>Strange.</p>
<p>Prowl should have at least run into <em>some</em> kind of crowd. That would have at least given him a hint of where the action was.</p>
<p>Wait.</p>
<p>Among the few lingering Camiens, a larger, familiar mech caught his eye, carefully holding what looked to be a cup of glowing purple fuel with a straw delicately pinched between claws.</p>
<p>“You!” Prowl pointed.</p>
<p>The mech froze mid-slurp.</p>
<p>His processor started pulling up data based on a quick visual identification of the blue helicopter. Whirl, former Wrecker, and a current member of the <em>Lost Light</em> crew. A well-known freewheeling troublemaker. By all reports, he somehow managed to be rather loyal to the captains, despite Rodimus’ flagrant, gross incompetence and Whirl’s very public conflicts with Megatron dating back to even before the war. A “loyal” crewman would be at the trial right now.</p>
<p>Now Prowl was <em>finally</em> getting somewhere.</p>
<p>As soon as the commander stepped towards his quarry, Whirl spun around and bolted like he’d been caught stealing candy, feet clicking along the paving stones in the street.</p>
<p>“Stop!” The patrol vehicle’s voice echoed in the nearly abandoned square and drew the gazes of the few remaining patrons.</p>
<p>It was no use, of course. Prowl already knew that, but it didn’t matter, even if he could never beat Whirl in a footrace. He’d apprehend that helicopter sooner or later and find out what he was up to. Probably no good, judging by Whirl’s record. In his professional, unbiased experience, innocent mechs also didn’t tend to run from the law. He could probably come up with some worthwhile excuse to threaten the ex-Wrecker with brig time.</p>
<p>Besides, Whirl couldn’t run forever. There were only so many places to go unless Whirl fled the city entirety, which was statistically unlikely.</p>
<p>The trail of brightly glowing fuel carelessly spilled in his mad dash also served as an obvious clue, especially in the evening’s twilight.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Several blocks later, the fuel trail ran dry in the street next to the mouth of an alleyway. Prowl growled in his throat as he fixed the last glowing drop on the ground with a glare as though <em>it</em> had been responsible for letting the commander down. </p>
<p>The empty left socket crackled with another arc of ungrounded current. Wincing, he slapped his palm over the wound in a vain attempt at stymieing the pain. When this was all over, he’d get it fixed. He’d march himself right up to Ratchet with an unspoken <em>mea culpa</em> to get it fixed.</p>
<p>A flash of motion off to his right, in the alley, caught his remaining optic, yanking his attention from the injury. Maybe the trail wasn’t <em>quite</em> as cold as he had previously thought. </p>
<p>The probability of walking into a trap here was low. Whirl wouldn’t have had the time to set anything up, even with the significant head start he had gotten on Prowl. The commander’s data files on the ex-Wrecker also didn’t <em>exactly</em> paint Whirl as a brilliant strategist. Deciding it was worth the risk, he cautiously stepped into the narrow, shadowed alley, hand on the blaster holstered on his hip just in case.</p>
<p>At first, all he saw was a tall stack of several metal crates, probably goods for nearby vendors to hawk the next day. Nothing else of import. Prowl sighed with disappointment, shoulders dropping from their guarded position.</p>
<p>“Ah. Commander.”</p>
<p>His gaze shot up, over to the side where a yellow light glowed from between the small gap of the crates and the wall of the adjacent building. Whirl narrowed his singular optic in something akin to what Prowl thought was a smirk. “What a lovely evening on beautiful Caminus.”</p>
<p>Sarcastic bastard. How Whirl managed to express that much insolence with only one eye and no mouth was beyond him. If he were in a better mood, he might have been a little impressed. It was a little funny, Prowl thought, that now they were <em>both</em> reduced to an eye a piece, though <em>he</em> would be getting his second optic back at some point. As it was, however, the commander was not feeling remotely amicable on this “lovely evening.”</p>
<p>“What are you <em>doing</em> back there, Whirl?” Hiding, most likely, and badly at that. Never mind the fact that Prowl hadn’t noticed him. It would only have been a matter of time before he had done so on his own, of course. Then again, Whirl <em>willingly</em> chose to reveal his location. Why?</p>
<p>“Oh, nothing.” The helicopter hummed innocently, not moving from his makeshift mousehole. “Just enjoying the scenery.”</p>
<p>“Squeezed behind packing crates in a darkened alley.”</p>
<p>“It’s perfect here. Comfy. Cozy. Like a hug.” Whirl snorted. “Not that <em>you’d</em> understand. You see, this hole was made for me.”</p>
<p>In fact not understanding in the slightest, Prowl scrunched his face in disgust, leaning away, his hand not leaving the grip of the blaster. Whatever Whirl was talking about, the commander wanted absolutely no part of. No. Not even “no, thank you.”</p>
<p>Best get back to the matter at hand.</p>
<p>“Why did you run?” Did Whirl spend all of his time thinking of the most suspicious things he could do and then just do them? There was no point in asking what was the matter with him, Prowl knew. The list would likely be shorter and infinitely more manageable if he asked what <em>wasn’t</em> wrong. It would probably still be full of nonsense and half-truths.</p>
<p>“Oh, I just thought, being a <em>sporting</em> sort of mech such as yourself, you might enjoy a little race. Really get the fuel pumping, you know?”</p>
<p>“That’s ridiculous.” Prowl huffed, waving his free hand in disbelief. “You’re ridiculous. Why aren’t you at the temple?”</p>
<p>“Why aren’t <em>you</em>? Isn’t your boyfriend’s boyfriend putting on a show over there?”</p>
<p>“I recommend you stow that insubordination right now. Let’s get <em>one</em> thing straight.” Though at this point he was beginning to wonder why he was bothering or, worse yet, still expecting straight answers out of someone who was known to <em>live</em> for chaos. “<em>I’m</em> asking the questions here, Whirl.”</p>
<p>“Well, I was getting a snack but I guess that’s a crime now, is it?”</p>
<p>No, it technically wasn’t a crime, not as long as he paid for it, but Prowl had no intentions of just leaving it at that. He shook his head with a derisive snort. Whatever it was Whirl was up to, he'd find out. For all he knew Megatron had sent Whirl out here just to be a distraction, to keep him off task. Never mind the fact that it was Prowl's own fault that he had ended up in the marketplace in the first place. That didn't matter. This wild goose chase had come to an end.</p>
<p>“What I <em>should</em> do is throw you in the brig for obstructing justice.”</p>
<p>“Little ol’ me? Obstruct justice? <em>Never!</em>” Whirl giggled in his cramped hiding place. Just <em>what</em> did that ne’er-do-well think was so funny?</p>
<p>“Whirl, come out of there." Of course he wasn't going to just wait Whirl to take his own sweet time. Prowl was already <em>beyond</em> late with this little detour. Approaching the stack of crates, he shoved his hand in the gap and clamped down on a fistful of plating. "Take me to the temple. <em>Now!</em>”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Clank!</em>
</p><p>His wrist seized up with a sharp ache, begging him to quit, to stop, to be <em>reasonable</em>. Rodimus had probably never once been “reasonable” in all of his functioning.</p><p>
  <em>Clank!</em>
</p><p>Ignoring the pain darting up his arm, Rodimus frantically struck the golden metal loop with the rock again and again, a manic attempt to scrape a spark of some kind into the steel wool tinder. </p><p>Anything. </p><p>He scraped the blade of the flint against the edge of the loop, cringing at the harsh rasping sound. </p><p>Anything <em>remotely</em> like an ungrounded current at all. <em>Anything</em> he could kindle into an ember.</p><p>His hand slipped and he fumbled, nearly dropping the flint right into the inky black blob of fuel. There was a soft cracking sound in his arm, but his audio processors hardly registered it. It was just background noise drowned out by roar of his oil lines desperately rushing from his core to his fans in an attempt to keep him cool.</p><p>
  <em>Anything!</em>
</p><p>No amount of glaring and gritted teeth did anything to elicit a response from the golden-colored striker clenched tightly in his left palm. His hand shook as he was debating trying to choke the nonexistent life out of the stupid thing.</p><p>Failure.</p><p>For all of his fervor, not <em>one</em> spark was born of his percussive attempts.</p><p>
  <em>Failure. </em>
</p><p>He was failing and that was <em>all</em> his processor could latch onto. The thought practically screamed at him. He was making an absolute fool of himself up here in front of <em>everyone</em>. Any second now, they’d <em>all</em> start <em>laughing</em>. At <em>him</em>. </p><p>Why wasn’t it working? Wasn’t he doing it right? How hard was this even supposed to be? It was just <em>fire</em>! That was raw recruit stuff! <em>Anybody</em> could do this! <em>Whirl</em> could probably do this and he didn’t even have <em>hands</em>!</p><p>Rodimus liked to think of himself as someone that didn’t cave under pressure, or at least, that’s what he liked others to think of him. He could only pray that no one saw the tension and shaking that he felt were on display to the entire world. </p><p>Stupid idiot who couldn’t even start a fire the good old-fashioned way. It was <em>supposed</em> to be <em>easy</em>! </p><p><em>Easy!</em> </p><p>And yet here he was, struggling like a drone glitching after being splashed with water.</p><p>He needed help—No, he didn’t need <em>help</em>. He needed a <em>push</em>.</p><p>Pausing in his panicked attempts to uselessly smack inanimate objects together, Rodimus forced himself to look up away from table and over to the side where he knew he wouldn’t see someone getting ready to laugh at his ineptitude.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The brief hadn’t mentioned <em>this</em>, not exactly. Minimus had asked him earlier if he knew what had been going on, but Megatron had only shaken his head after leaning down to better hear his much smaller friend. The task was nominally prove whether or not Rodimus had mastery over fire, but….</p><p>Millions of years of being suspicious of the world around him had honed an almost additional sense to know when something wasn’t quite right. Megatron had first noticed something was decidedly wrong the moment he’d read the brief, especially when it had declined to elaborate on the precise how’s of how Rodimus was supposed to light the fire beyond using an old fashioned method without any assistance. He was even named specifically as being barred from providing aid, not that his help ought to have been necessary this time, not for such a nominally simple task. What did they think Megatron could even do? Other than know how to use a steel and flint, like most mechs of his age and former caste could. At first upon reading the brief, he had thought that perhaps he had worried too much. Yet it was <em>too</em> simple for a trial meant to prove <em>godhood</em>, after all.</p><p>Initially, he had been mostly concerned for his co-captain’s recent injury, certain that the motions required would aggravate the still-healing wound. This was a particular problem because he knew the pain wouldn’t do more than slow Rodimus down, if that, when he was feeling determined. The younger mech had always had a chip on his shoulder, like he constantly had something to prove. Then again… he <em>had</em> lived for so long in Optimus’ <em>colossal</em> shadow, some “punk” even before the Matrix had found him. An uncomfortable thought reminded him that <em>he</em> too had cast such a shadow over his own former allies, one that still remained even without him. For now, he pushed it away, burying it in the recesses of his processor to focus on the now.</p><p>Megatron’s worries only deepened when the Mistress of Flame elaborated on the actual materials after they had arrived. Everything was chosen to look like the tools one might have found in a field kit, but with some <em>specific</em> changes. The striker was the first problem. </p><p>Aluminum bronze was used to make non-sparking tools, something necessary for a lot of mining equipment given raw energon’s tendency to explode if you so much as look at it wrong. A single spark could have caused an entire mine to blow. Yet another problem when the miners were literally made with iron. The lucky ones had a protective, anti-sparking coating. </p><p>While the flint should have worked with a striker of the <em>right</em> material, it would never cause a spark like this, not when combined with a functionally useless, non-sparking striker. It was hardly any wonder that the Rodimus was getting nowhere, no matter how ferociously he scraped the tools together.</p><p>The fuel was yet another problem. Instead of a gelled hydrocarbon fuel, they had gelled a substance, in his understanding, not terribly dissimilar from mineral wool… a notoriously noncombustible insulation. Varieties of it were used to line blast furnaces and foundries to prevent the spread of fire for that very reason.</p><p>No wonder the crowd had gasped.</p><p>Now, as Megatron watched from the sidelines, he finally realized that Rodimus had been set up to <em>fail</em>.</p><p>And Rodimus probably had no idea. He would have had <em>no</em> idea what the specifics of the equipment he'd been provided meant.</p><p>The frown he’d been wearing remained set deep. They’d been tricked, but why? What could the Mistress of Flame gain from causing Rodimus to fail? What was the point? Didn’t she have <em>more</em> to gain by making it so he would succeed at her stupid games? This whole thing was a complete farce—</p><p>Then Rodimus looked up at him, seeking <em>something</em>.</p><p>It was rare for him to see the younger captain looking uncertain, given how thickly he covered his actions in a defensive layer of bravado. Yet the something in the tremble of the red mech's hands and the much wider shape of his flexible optical glass showed Megatron something he'd never seen before, something that made his spark almost stop in its chamber. </p><p>Rodimus was panicking.</p><p>An unfamiliar instinct drove him to step forward. The moment he moved, he felt a small weight, a gentle force pushing back against his shin. Without even looking, Megatron knew who it was.</p><p>Minimus was right. </p><p>"There's nothing you can do," the minibot whispered as he leaned up on his toes, audible only due to their proximity and the relative silence of the chamber. Besides, it wasn't like he could suddenly <em>bend physics</em> to make it work and Rodimus wasn't <em>actually</em> a god, after all. A nearby Torchbearer straightened up their stance, a silent warning that any interference would not be tolerated.</p><p>Out of habit, he clenched his jaw and shifted his weight to be even on both feet, a rooted posture as though he expected an impact. They could certainly <em>try</em> to stop him. If he decided to toss his co-captain over a shoulder and make a break for the ship, there probably wouldn't be much they could really do about it. Or at least so he told himself. With a sigh, he released all of his held tension and stepped back, Minimus finally unhanding his leg.</p><p>Then, optics wide, he realized. </p><p>The impossible materials. Of course, it was so <em>obvious</em>. If the task <em>had</em> been simple and straightforward, <em>any</em> unfortunate schmuck could have done it. It was literally just fire. This way, with the non-sparking striker and the noncombustible fuel….</p><p>Rodimus had been set up for a <em>miracle</em>.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>All Rodimus saw was frustration and displeasure in the old mech’s face. His spark sunk and slowed in its spin, feeling just a little colder. He tensed slightly when it looked like Megatron would abandon the sidelines and approach, probably to complain or do the task himself or something Rodimus couldn’t fathom right now. Luckily it looked like Minimus had the sense to stop him.</p><p>Megatron was probably disappointed in him for not having read the brief, which probably contained the exact instructions for what he needed to do. There had to be some trick to this and they probably gave it to him for the show. </p><p>Then it hit him. </p><p>It was just a <em>stunt</em>.</p><p>It was all for show, right? It <em>had</em> to be. Anything else would be stupid. The Mistress of Flame didn’t <em>actually</em> believe he was supposed to be the divine reincarnation of their favored deity, right? It was just for publicity and fun, right? And now he was ruining it. If it was just a stunt, he could… maybe come up with some way to salvage it.</p><p>But if Megatron thought he could do this stupid trick, then Rodimus <em>definitely</em> could. He wasn’t going to be shown up by some rickety old coot at <em>his own</em> performance, no matter how close their friendship was. He had thought that at this point if <em>anyone</em> was going to support him, it would have been….</p><p>He’d show that bastard.</p><p>That was <em>just</em> the push he needed.</p><p>His wrist was already <em>burning</em> from the injury that he was pretty sure he had reopened in his frenzied attempts to bring forth a spark from these stupid tools. That could be dealt with later. Not only was the injury burning, but now it was quite literally <em>hot</em>, the plating on his arms and hands shifting slightly, feeling tight to his frame. </p><p>Hot.</p><p><em>That</em> was it. <em>That</em> was what he needed to do.</p><p>Scowling, he glared at the tools in his hands, feeling the heat build now in both palms.</p><p>Screw these stupid fucking tools.</p><p>Apparently he didn’t always need to be in <em>physical danger</em> exactly to do it.</p><p>He <em>just</em> needed the <em>fuel</em> to burn.</p><p>As he clutched the tools tight, the air nearby crackled. In a breath, orange flames erupted around his fists, engulfing the unfortunate items. In the rapidly climbing heat, the flint began to crack and the striker to deform. </p><p>Was this cheating? Maybe, but he didn't particularly care anymore. If they wanted that void-damned fuel to burn, it <em>absolutely</em> would, regardless of the means. The crowd didn't seem to mind by the sound of it, but he hadn't <em>seen</em> them for what felt like ages. He could barely hear them now over the growing roar of the fire in front of his eyes.</p><p>The flames crackled, glowing yellow and then shifting into white as the temperature pushed higher. This would drain him. It always did. Rodimus could already feel the strain on his batteries and capacitors as they struggled to sustain and expand the chaotic exothermic reaction. The exhaustion would be a problem for later, like most things. </p><p>Both hands flew forward, plunging into the thick gel in the bowl. The tools became buried deep in the ooze, not one thought paid to whether or not perhaps they were antiques or maybe even sacred. If he was to be a god, then <em>he</em> would get to determine that, wouldn't he? Later.</p><p>The thick fuel clung to his plating as it ignited, pushing the white flames into blue with a burst of a pressure wave of hot, acrid gas as the chain reaction began. Yanking his arms back after letting go of the striker and flint, he saw that sticky, black globs still held fast to him, feeding the blaze. The resultant sooty residue would be an absolute pain to remove from his arms and hands later, probably cost him some paint in the process, but it was <em>worth</em> it.</p><p>Several moments passed, feeling like <em>millions</em> of years as he stood there. He stared at the burning bowl, the contents being steadily consumed, arms raised as he let the fire on his own frame slowly peter out. He was still far too warm. Plating shifted and lifted slightly to help dissipate the lingering heat. Even his heavy-duty fans struggled loudly. The fatigue was creeping in, starting to settle first in his limbs and crawl inward.</p><p>He let out a laugh, harsh and tired.</p><p>Rodimus clumsily assumed a wide-stanced pose he hoped was filled with triumph, as opposed to exhaustion. Once the flames on his hands had begun to die down, he pointed at Megatron, still standing across the room and looking like a complete buffoon with that slack jaw.</p><p>"<em>Ha!</em>" The task itself was seemingly forgotten. "Take that!"</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We finally accomplished plot.</p><p>
  
</p><p>For more weird commentary from me, you can find <a href="https://heliopauseentertainments.tumblr.com/">me on Tumblr</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was just after the sun had fully set when Prowl and his “prisoner” arrived at the temple complex. It was becoming a little tricky to see where the ground ended and the waiting people began. Did the Camiens not use streetlights? Lanterns? Torches? Anything? Why was this place so damn dark? </p>
<p>Yanking Whirl around by the elbow all of the way through the temple had been an exercise in determination for Prowl. Whirl, of course, had little interest in being cooperative but he <em>did</em> indicate the correct path. He just protested being led along like the naughty soldier he was. Delayed only by the helicopter’s obstinacy, they arrived just as the crowd at first looked like it was beginning to disperse from where they had been bunched up on the temple grounds, blocking the street and paths. He’d missed the trial, not that he’d been particularly keen to see the <em>proceedings</em> per se, but the <em>participants</em>.</p>
<p>Not to be disappointed so soon, as the commander stood at the edge of the crowd with Whirl wriggling in his grasp, he calculated that the odds of catching the captains would be higher without the crowd in the way. If he let them drift off first… just a little patience would surely pay off. What struck Prowl though, far more than the sheer number of mechs here, was the volume of <em>noise</em>. The chattering. The shouting. The whooping. The <em>singing</em>. This didn’t seem consistent with a group dispersing.</p>
<p>That meant—<em>Dammit</em>.</p>
<p>Mechs jostled each other as some tried to dance and wriggle free. Prowl leapt back, hauling Whirl unwillingly with him as he tried in vain to escape the inevitable crush. The crowd began to spill into the road and spread like a living fluid. In moments Prowl found himself at first swept up in the dark crowd, bumped into and herded along, deeper into the swirling mass of people. He instinctively tightened his hand, but Whirl slipped his grip with a laugh as the ex-Wrecker enthusiastically joined in the reverie. The flood of beings dragged him away from the temple as more people poured out of the building.</p>
<p>A sharp pain from a misplaced foot slamming onto his own shot up his leg. Prowl hollered, trying in vain to round on his assailant with all of the vitriol he could muster while contained like a prepackaged field ration. His doors got stuck on the kibble and frames of the surrounding mechs, preventing him from turning. Another yell pulled itself from his vocalizer as he could feel frustration beginning to burn in his fuel pump.</p>
<p> No one seemed to care for his struggling. Their disregard for this foreign, unknown commander was being bolstered by their excitement for whatever had occurred within the temple walls. That was where he had to be. He couldn’t let himself become lost in this mad jubilee. That goal was only underscored when he saw someone nearby pour a cup of what certainly smelled like engex. That would only embolden these ecstatics. <em>He had to get out</em>. </p>
<p>A few lanterns flickered on, held aloft by a scattered number of celebrants. </p>
<p>Still pushed by the crowd, Prowl dug his heels in and started shoving his way towards the nearest lantern in the direction of the temple. Every hard-fought step came with elbow jabs to those in his path and shouts to make way for security enforcement business. He didn’t want to have to resort to waving around his blaster to get out of this claustrophobic hell. </p>
<p>Luckily, the crowd seemed to thin a little as he pushed forward, his way made easier by the parting mechs. It was as though the crowd was actively moving out of the way for someone or something emerging from the temple structure itself. Grumbling and spitting, Prowl continued to push his way forward. Unlucky Camiens were shoved aside without so much as an apology. A handful swore at him as he went. A particularly brave mech shook a fist at him. To hell with them. They were the ones in his way, after all, and he had things that he had to do, things that couldn’t wait for their stupid little street-party.</p>
<p>At long last, the edge of the group appeared in his line of sight, coming towards him. Without the pressure of so many beings, there was almost no resistance here. Prowl stopped and finally breathed a sigh of relief. The commander now stood his ground and allowed the Camiens to simply part around him like air around a well-engineered aileron. He lifted his arm to shield his good optic from the sudden glare glinting off bright plate, hissing slightly from the excess light after having begun to adjust to the darkened street.</p>
<p>“Oh, hey, Prowl!” Rodimus’ oddly tired voice drew his attention to the center of the clearing past the crowd. Prowl squinted, letting his eye adjust yet again. The red captain was leaning for support against the arm of an old warlord with an ex-Con assassin desperately trying to pat a towel on Rodimus’ flank. He looked exhausted, covered in soot and grime, and… absolutely <em>drenched</em>. Megatron looked hardly better save for the lack of any obvious soot and generally appearing far more alert. “You missed it but you’re just in time for the after-party.”</p>
<p>What the absolute fuck happened in there? Had Rodimus engaged in arson? More likely he accidentally set off the fire suppression system by doing something stupid. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>When he finally stopped gloating, the room started to come back into focus. Small, comparatively cool red flames still wrapped around his hands. The sticky black fuel that lingered on his hands and arms had been either consumed or flung away by his dramatic gesturing. It had left only a grimy residue that would be an absolute glitch to get off later. Yuck. </p>
<p>He took a deep ventilation to try and pull more cool air into his body, both to calm himself down but also to ease the strain on his temperature control systems. Oil still rushed in his lines to keep up with the demand.</p>
<p>
  <em>Crack!</em>
</p>
<p>Twisting to find the source of the noise, he saw that the blaze in the bowl had breached the now-shattered container and spilled across the table. The flames jumped in size as they began to consume the table. </p>
<p>Oops.</p>
<p>"Oh, that's not <em>supposed</em> to happen, is it?" Rodimus tossed a thumb at the conflagration in front of him, looking over his shoulder at their hostess. The Mistress of Flame stood back, stiff, eyes wide in genuine… something. Fear? Awe? Shock? She didn’t look quite right. Oh well. It was hard for Rodimus to tell sometimes, especially with people he didn't know well. </p>
<p>The Mistress of Flame’s feelings were not his problem right now. He’d just torched the hell out of some probably important ritual objects. It wouldn’t take much needling to get Ultra Magnus to just pay the bill for the damages later from Rodimus’ savings later. Not that he was particularly flush with cash, but government stipend.</p>
<p>The priestess pressed her free hand to her chest, frozen for the moment before she hurriedly waved it to summon some of the Torchbearers. She somehow still managed to seem elegant even in a situation like this.</p>
<p>"Yeah, I thought not. My bad—”</p>
<p>Rodimus barely noticed as the Torchbearers rushed forth as one cohesive unit from their stations around the chamber. They hurried to extinguish the small, but growing blaze before it could spread beyond the destroyed table. How long had they been carrying around buckets of water? Where did they get those? Huh. Funny that despite their name, they were out here putting fires out. </p>
<p>With all of the oxidation from igniting a fire, he would need to need to get some fresh motor oil to change out his supply. Worse was that he’d accidentally ignited some in the process, the oil lines now a little slack with the lack of pressure. The very thought made his fuel intake go dry with thirst as he shook out his aching arms. Megs was gonna kill him about his wrist. Whatever.</p>
<p>It didn’t help the situation that he was <em>really</em> in need of a nap and a snack at this point. The world wobbled around him. Lights danced from the flickering flames, reflecting off the clear layer of the floor and the plating of mechs scurrying hither and thither or bubbling. In the background rumbled the vague, indistinct din of the crowd that had gathered inside the temple for the show.</p>
<p>He swayed where he stood. Hopefully the ground would catch him if he fell over. The ground tended to be pretty reliable like that.</p>
<p>“<em>Ack!</em>" </p>
<p>Without warning, Rodimus found himself in the air, still smoldering as strong arms held him aloft. </p>
<p>Hm. </p>
<p>Tall.</p>
<p>“I think maybe… just <em>maybe</em> I hecked it up a bit, Megs.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Did… did he just… really see that?</p>
<p>It wasn’t often that Megatron was left speechless, mouth agape like a new-build just let out of the cold construction facility. After spending enough time with the Lost Light and its maverick crew, he generally had no business being surprised anymore. Though, in this case, he might have been forgiven. While he had seen Rodimus spontaneously combust before, it was not… like this, not in so directed a fashion and definitely in a way that bent the <em>laws of physics</em> over the younger mech’s knee.</p>
<p>And yet there in front of him stood Rodimus, wreathed by the impossible inferno while pointing at him and laughing like it was all the easiest thing in the world. For the moment, this was all Megatron could see. The flurry of firefighting guards and the roaring crowd might as well have not existed for him. All that remained for what felt like endless ages was the sight of this foolish, <em>effulgent</em>, walking blowtorch waving his still-burning arms and the feeling of being consumed by his all-embracing, annealing heat.</p>
<p>Then the red mech swayed, like a marionette with freshly cut strings, visibly <em>exhausted</em> from the overexertion.</p>
<p>Snapping back into the here and now with a brutal sobriety, like he himself had been <em>dunked</em> into quenching oil, he surged across the floor. A panicked Minimus was left behind, standing back on the sidelines, likely fretting over a million things at once. That could wait. The captain only had <em>one</em> thought right now.</p>
<p>Within moments, he had crossed the floor, thoughtlessly sweeping up Rodimus into his grasp before the red mech could much react to the manhandling. A bite of painful heat flashed across Megatron’s arms and chest from his mostly limp cargo. Rodimus’ plating was still scalding hot, the dying flames still barely hanging on around his hands and wrists. A harsh hiss escaped between his teeth. </p>
<p>“I think maybe… just <em>maybe</em> I hecked it up a bit, Megs.”</p>
<p>Before he could protest Rodimus’ clearly <em>delirious</em> claim, something cold and wet splashed over the both of them. Steam gushed out the seams in the smaller captain’s overheated plating, water vaporizing on contact with the metal. Their plating pinged loudly as it warped from the drastic change in temperature.</p>
<p>A sheepish-looking, relatively small Torchbearer had approached and, in her zeal to help, tossed a bucket of water over the both them… well, mostly over Rodimus. Unfortunately, Megatron had been front and center in the splash zone, which left him sputtering and dripping. She mumbled a hasty apology before stepping away to assist her comrades with containing the conflagrant fruits of Rodimus’ labors.</p>
<p>The Torchbearers quickly emptied their buckets. Water sloshed over the table, suffocating the flames before spilling over to cover the floor. The resultant, blackened pool was full of soot and char and half-consumed fuel, all of which became smeared across the ground as the water flowed.</p>
<p>Though, for all of his co-captain’s puffed up bluster, he found himself smiling at the fact that the pouting mech in his grasp looked rather like a drowned cyber-rat. How charming, he thought, without regard for the fact that he was currently standing in a steadily growing, disgusting puddle.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If he had to hear Megatron make <em>another</em> damn, dry wisecrack about Rodimus not feeling particularly "divine" this morning, he was going to kill the old mech himself. Prowl could thank him later. His processor <em>pounded</em> with the aftermath of the street-party following his supposed miracle. Could he ban Megatron from attempting to tell jokes? He wasn't funny. Were miners onlined without senses of humor? Was that why he told jokes once in a blue moon? Watching him attempt to banter with Ultra Magnus was always so painful to witness but at least their armor-wearing friend had business elsewhere today. That meant Rodimus was spared, for now.</p><p>Engex on an empty tank <em>and</em> low on oil? Officially a bad idea. Zero out of ten. Rodimus would not recommend it to anyone who had been thinking about trying that shit out. </p><p>With a groan, he leaned his face against his palm as they sat at the low dining table. Ow. Wrong wrist. One dramatic sigh later and he had awkwardly switched arms. His left hand was the dumb one. Nothing felt natural with it, which was really only compounded by the hangover. Everything hurt, including and especially everything. He’d barely managed to down some fresh oil after waking up to replace what he’d lost through the previous night’s oxidation and accidental ignition. His tanks twinged at the thought of taking in anything else, even if deep down he knew he really needed it.</p><p>In the rush to celebrate the first “proof” of his alleged prior life, he hadn’t even dried off last night when the first believer had pressed a local drink into his hand. The Torchbearers had backed off and let him immerse himself in the crowd of singing and dancing mechs. Not many had come terribly close, even fewer had gotten within range to even brush his plating on accident but that had likely been a result of his outsize companion. </p><p>He’d never heard songs of praise, hymns, sung to <em>him</em> before. Well, they had been singing in praise of Solus, but the idea was “same difference.” While he had heard praises before, that had been nothing like being <em>worshiped</em>. Instead of feeling filthy with soot, he had felt like a beloved shining sun, proverbially held aloft and adored. Though, he would have preferred <em>actually</em> being held aloft and adored but someone had thought it would have been “inappropriate in public.” The ruse they had would have given the old mech full license to do just that. Megatron had been given the honor of holding up an awe-inspiring god and he didn’t take it. Coward. </p><p>Mechs had struggled to just get a <em>look</em> at him, to reach out and maybe, just maybe receive some sort of blessing. Many had called out what he could only assume were prayers. While he’d been too tired to really engage with the swirling, ecstatic crowd, he remembered at least one shyly approach and ask for a blessing. It had been an elderly mech who clearly had some difficulties moving due to form fatigue in his joints—that’s what Megatron had called it. Rodimus had shaken his hand in friendly greeting and shortly after the old mech practically skipped away, no sign of pain. Huh. He must have been super excited… or his pain meds had kicked in or something. And then the drinks had just <em>kept coming</em>. </p><p>What an absolutely wild party. Maybe they should do it again... when he was less dead.</p><p>This morning, however, felt like a mood whiplash. He probably should have listened to Megatron about overindulging—Nah. Dude was a boring stick-in-the-mud who couldn’t even get overcharged thanks to someone giving him the miracle karate chop of sobriety at some point. Lame. Oh well, he was still Rodimus’ boring stick-in-the-mud. Even if he could be dull, the old bastard at least made sure to drag him back to their lodgings in the wee hours of the morning. He’d even plugged a totally trashed co-captain into the recharge cables. What a good buddy, even if his jokes sucked aft. Maybe Rodimus would give him a kiss on the cheek later as a treat. Also because the certain embarrassment that would follow would have been so <em>worth</em> it.</p><p>The Mistress of Flame had invited them off the temple grounds that morning for something she called “brunch.” Apparently it was something like a late breakfast, according to his dictionary. Huh. Sounded fancy, but it was hard to appreciate with the sun actively trying to murder him. Rodimus kept his optics narrowed to fend off the glare when he bothered to keep them onlined at all. A small cup of neon green, flavored fuel with some stimulant additives sat untouched between his elbows. The color clashed loudly with the sky blue table underneath.</p><p>What he wouldn’t give to go back to sleep and curl up on that squishy recharge slab. The first time he’d really gotten a chance to be somewhere off the temple grounds on Caminus—the street-party the night before hardly counted—and all he wanted to was to go right back.</p><p>“Megan.” He sluggishly reached over with his right arm to lightly tap a gray elbow, not even needing to look to find his mark. “Ow—” Still tender, but this was urgent. He tapped again, more insistently as his voice pitched up into an unflattering whine. “<em>Megan</em>, can you move a bit? Block the sun with your absurd hugeness? That’d be just great. Thanks, babe.” </p><p>The shadow to his right moved slightly, the sun’s piercing light mercifully disappearing. Perfect.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Rodimus was an absolute mess, Megatron thought, glancing down towards his left where he could see the red racer slumped over the table in the diner. Getting inebriated like that, when he already wasn’t in a good place, had been stupid and foolish. He had been warned that it would have negative consequences. It was a small miracle the speedster hadn’t purged his tanks at any point during or after the impromptu celebration. The nitwit had gotten so overcharged that he probably didn’t even remember Drift and Megatron keeping an eye on him, then hauling him back to their lodgings, cleaning him up, and finally patching his twisted wrist again. Simply getting all of the soot and grime off Rodimus’ plating had been a massive undertaking. All those tiny pieces of lightweight plating had made for finicky work. </p><p>Luckily he’d had Drift’s assistance throughout the ordeal. What a loyal friend his co-captain had in their third-in-command, even if Rodimus had been gallivanting around and indulging the populace’s fantasies. It had seemed that Drift had wanted to talk to his friend last night, but in his exuberant joy, Rodimus had been in the wrong mental space for it. It had been nearly impossible to pull him back from the high of being the center of an entire people’s attention, of being loved by so many all at once. </p><p>Did the speedster even realize how <em>rare</em> such a friendship like that was? Megatron’s own processor unbidden pulled up an image of Soundwave, as though specifically to give him a pang of regret and remind him of squandered opportunities.</p><p>He fidgeted with his cup of purple fuel. The sweetened gelled pieces floating in the beverage were honestly a little off-putting in his personal opinion, but apparently it was a local delicacy. Acting as Rodimus’ protector was thankless labor when the former—well, that was debatable—Prime kept being so careless. </p><p>The awful, new nickname—even <em>worse</em> than the last one, in his opinion—combined with Rodimus’ griping pulled Megatron from his thoughts. He had a preferred designation, but <em>no</em>. Constantly being accosted with terms of endearment in public was also grating on his nerves, but he couldn’t exactly <em>say</em> anything about it, not without risking blowing their cover. It was now far too late to explain away his friend’s stupid prank. All that he could do was suffer through the indignity. After shifting to accommodate Rodimus’ request for shade, he cleared his vocalizer with a somewhat apologetic cough. “As you were saying….”</p><p>The Mistress of Flame took being interrupted by a half-present Prime fairly well, still continuing to smile at them softly. There was still something in her cold yet kindly face, the detached grace with which she carried herself… that Megatron didn’t like. She made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t immediately name. She had some aim that he couldn’t quite flush out, not yet anyway.</p><p>“Of course,” she began, showing her well-maintained teeth. “As I was saying, now that you’ve settled in some here on Caminus—” If one could really call being corralled into one location for days on end “settling in” then, sure. “—I was hoping to learn a bit more about the both of you.”</p><p>Well, that could only be trouble.</p><p>All the same, Megatron calmly nodded his assent, hoping she would have the professionalism to only ask general questions, nothing terribly personal or invasive. Outright lying, amusingly, was not his strong suit and he hoped that simply… omitting information would be sufficient. The less information she had, the less information, true or not, that could be used against them later. Ideally with Rodimus clearly feeling like a dead mech walking, he would be a little less inclined to be so <em>loquacious</em>.</p><p>“How long have you been—”</p><p>Rodimus’ free hand shot into the air, pointing at the ceiling for emphasis before their hostess could even finish her question.</p><p>“Only like a <em>million</em> years.”</p><p>It was going to be a <em>long</em> brunch.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After asking around, Prowl felt like he had made at least <em>some</em> progress. It was nominal, at best, but it was <em>progress</em>. He sighed, looking at his notes as he sat on the bench outside of the restaurant. The fact that a lot of the sources he’d been able to contact over the course of the previous evening had been completely overcharged out of their damn minds meant that everything he had needed to be taken with a grain of salt until it could be independently confirmed and corroborated. </p><p>He himself had turned down a number of freely offered drinks himself. Prowl tended not to care for engex anyway and he’d also been on the job. In all likelihood, it had been a ploy to get him off of his guard, to hinder his investigation. What good was a drunk detective? Well, he wasn’t going to fall into any of Megatron’s “clever” traps. Prowl had outsmarted him before and he would do it again.</p><p>The situation hadn’t been helped by the fact that he’d been unable to get near either of his primary targets after the party got underway. Rodimus had been swept off by the crowd with a scowling tank and a traitorous assassin in tow. </p><p>Traditional investigative legwork could be such a pain in the aft, but it was <em>something</em> at least. Then again the legwork last night had resulted in a number of mechs telling him they knew a good doctor who could patch up his eye. The commander hadn’t asked for their advice. Presumptuous busybodies. Prowl’s missing optic wasn’t anybody’s business and he would get it taken care of when he was <em>good and ready</em>.</p><p>He <em>had</em> gotten a fair amount of the details on what the trial had actually entailed, though the data was incomplete. Prowl would have to work with the local priesthood to get the rest of the information. Hopefully they wouldn’t stonewall him in their zeal to support their sham deity. Everyone’s favorite game, statistically, tended to be obstruction of justice after all. Still he had managed to gather that it seemed Rodimus had pulled off some sort of “miracle” in regards to the fire he had been meant to light. Fat chance. The real miracle was probably that he didn’t accidentally burn the whole void-damned building while trying to immolate himself with that faulty, unpredictable upgrade of his. Honestly, if Rodimus had any sense at all, he'd have Ratchet remove it. Maybe Prowl could make a recommendation as a superior officer....</p><p>What a mess.</p><p>He turned off the datapad in his hands, stuffing it haphazardly in his subspace. Another tired sigh. Prowl lifted his head to get a look at the Camiens going about their business on the street. Away from the main market square, this street was narrower with fewer impermanent stalls, fewer patrons bustled about in their haste to get errands done. Most of the venues out here were long-term fixtures. Most of the signage was painted by hand as opposed to made with energy-intensive lighting of some kind. Vintage residential units with hand-carved façades sat on almost all of the shops, most likely to conserve space. This lent the businesses a quaint, personal atmosphere. If he’d come here by choice, Prowl wouldn’t have minded spending time actually taking in the city, but for now he really couldn’t. Maybe… maybe one day when this was all over, when Cybertron and its daughter colonies had finally joined the Galactic Council, when things were finally calm…. A pipe dream, he knew.</p><p>Prowl hated that he was glad that at least Megatron hadn’t wandered off or otherwise been offlined in the chaos of whatever went on in the temple last night. As much as he hated the bastard, he did need him alive to give to the Galactic Council. A dead offering would do the commander no good. They couldn’t put a sparkless husk on trial. Well, they <em>could</em> but no punishment of worth could be meted out. The Galactic Council would probably not consider the joyless, macabre spectacle of a dead mech's indictment a sufficient peace offering.</p><p>This morning, after a sleepless night—not that he needed it after falling asleep against a door for so long—had been spent traipsing after wayward crew members wandering the Camien streets. Prowl, of course, couldn’t risk getting too close, but he needed to get a sense for what they had been up to. He’d thought that a stakeout of sorts might have given him some invaluable clues.</p><p>That one minibot he didn’t initially recognize from before—Tailgate, he had discovered from crosschecking with the <em>Lost Light’s</em> crew manifest—had been spotted sitting with another minibot, Swerve, at a local engex establishment, shooting the breeze. Prowl had tucked himself away behind a corner, pretending to read something while enjoying the sunshine. An absolutely <em>flawless</em> bit of acting if he did say so himself. Apparently this Tailgate was the roommate of Cyclonus and over the past few years had forged some sort of close friendship. They were struggling with decorating their habsuite. There was no point, honestly, because the ship was destined to be decommissioned in short order, but the crew's impending displacement wasn’t Prowl’s problem. </p><p>Cyclonus had apparently expressed some concerns regarding a lack of homey decor—most likely in the form of dismembered Autobots if Prowl could extrapolate from the events with Kimia—and Tailgate had felt the need to seek advice about it. For some reason. The solution was simple. Don’t display your murder victims like grotesque trophies. That’s how you get caught. Luckily, it seemed that having minimal color and decoration were more in Tailgate’s taste. Very appropriate for the badge he wore. No excess, no desecration of bodies, no fuss. Swerve had offered no useful suggestions, though he did seem to be something of a blabbermouth. Maybe Prowl could take advantage of that later.</p><p>Unfortunately, there was nothing immediately actionable in what had been overheard so Prowl had simply jotted it down before moving on. It matched with a similar conversation he had overheard between Cyclonus and Whirl, of all bots to possibly seek advice from, while the two had been browsing the goods at a more permanent furniture stand, one that seemed to sell wall fixtures for display. Whirl had accused Cyclonus of “nesting.” That must have been a secret code. Still nothing actionable.</p><p>And now Prowl had gotten himself comparatively comfortable on a bench, next to a shade-giving statue of a young, winged mech singing her spark out. It was actually quite a nice piece of art, but he didn’t have the time now to appreciate it. <em>This</em> patrol car wasn’t on vacation. The bench had been positioned in front of a whimsical diner, where, he had discovered through the grapevine, the Mistress of Flame, the local high priestess, had decided to take the <em>Lost Light’s</em> captains for a casual brunch. The grapevine… and the way that mechs passing by clogged the way by the windows in the hopes of spotting a red racer before eventually going on about their business had confirmed the location. These Camiens were so nosy. Unlike Prowl. He was <em>working</em>. There was a distinct difference.</p><p>Luckily, the commander had found the location before the captains and onlookers had arrived. That had let him slip in and bug the diner before being shooed away by the proprietors. They hadn't understood what he was doing, of course, but it didn’t matter. He had what he needed and now… now he just had to wait and record. </p><p>It wasn’t a long wait for the captains to arrive with their Torchbearer guard. Rodimus looked like a hungover sailor upon entering the establishment, followed closely by a watchful Megatron, who cautiously looked up and down the street. The Torchbearers even got caught in his mistrustful glare. Paranoid old bastard.</p><p>The old warlord was up to something. As usual.</p><p>After attaching the headset to the side of his head and squinting at the recording device in his hand, he settled in. The conversation was dull… at best, at first, as pleasantries had been exchanged and orders placed.</p><p>And from the way Rodimus was talking, when he <em>did</em> bother to say something, Prowl began to wonder if perhaps the captain hadn’t also been a bit drugged in addition to hungover, something unseemly slipped into a beverage. The things he was saying were absolute nonsense. As though those two idiots had been married for over a million years. That there had been a lavish public ceremony for their bonding. That they’d raised many new-builds together over the almost innumerable years. A cursory glance of Cybertronian public records would have shown that none of that was even remotely true. </p><p>Besides the fact that the entire notion was <em>disgusting</em>, Rodimus didn’t even exist, as such, more than thirty years ago. Prior to that, Hot Rod for the most part had been a nuisance, who occasionally—and incompetently— oversaw missions. Never mind the several million years-long war they’d been waging that <em>surely</em> the Mistress of Flame was aware of by now due to her position as a delegate to the Council of Worlds. Even “Emperor” Starscream wouldn’t have the bearings to attempt to hide the existence of the war that had nearly destroyed them all. Might have <em>embellished</em> though.</p><p>Megatron, it seemed, had the sense to excuse these wild tales as a result of Rodimus’ currently poor state of mind. It was hard to tell if the fluster and embarrassment in the old tyrant’s voice was genuine or affected. The commander frowned down at the recording device in his hands, gripping it tightly between his thumbs and fingers. With a huff, he set it aside on his lap, pulling out his datapad again to resume actively taking notes. However, Prowl couldn’t suppress the thought that perhaps the former despot had manipulated Rodimus into saying these outlandish things as a sort of cover of some kind. If he could portray the speedster as the sort of mech who regularly overindulged and was prone to delusions and making up nonsense stories… If he could portray himself as a devoted, long-suffering conjunx, Megatron could have easily maneuvered himself to control the situation and the resulting narrative.</p><p>Between furiously scribbling notes on his datapad with his worn, gnawed-on light-pen, Prowl repeatedly saved multiple copies of the audio recording, ignoring the fact that his head kept tipping forward as his penance for pulling another all-nighter. Valuable evidence, both to present to Optimus and for use in connecting the currently disparate threads of his own investigation. Prowl cautiously offlined his functioning optic, leaning against the side of the statue that buttressed his end of the bench as he continued to listen. Familiar voices filled his audio processors, analysis software running in parallel on a separate thread to assist with identifying patterns and red flags. There was so much here. Yet still nothing he could take action on. He needed <em>more</em>, but the shade from the statue was cool and his limbs felt heavy. Maybe if he just let the recorder run… and… and….</p><p>Prowl was lucky that passersby didn’t point out the soft snoring of the strange, white-and-black tourist on the bench by the statue.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rodimus wasn't going to be taken by surprise at the next performance. That much was for sure. He still felt fairly certain this was all just a publicity stunt for the Mistress of Flame. All gods he'd met before had turned out to be fake or incompetent or…. He could have sworn that there had been an exception but he couldn't quite remember.</p><p>The next brief had arrived a few days after the first trial, thankfully long after Rodimus’ hangover had dissipated. The delay, since it was originally due to arrive the morning after the first task, was nominally due to some adjustments that the Mistress of Flame needed to make after the events during the last spectacle. Apparently there had been some “unexpected developments” or so the courier had set before Rodimus had snapped the door closed on their unlucky nose in his hurry to <em>consume</em> the brief. There was no time to waste after all. He wouldn’t be caught unawares this time around. No way. He was going to <em>own</em> the show from the get-go this time.</p><p>The moment the door clicked shut, Rodimus scurried over to the low couch in the habsuite, flopped on it like so much fresh laundry, and clicked the datapad on. </p><p>At first, he skimmed, far too excited to actually take in any of the information in front of him as he kicked his feet idly in the air. All Rodimus managed to get from this first pass through, eyes skipping over most lines that weren’t clearly marked headings, was that he had to create something via smithing. Sure, that sounded like it was supposed to be daunting, but the trick was likely hiding in the fine print somewhere. He just had to read it again to find it, but that wasn’t the point.</p><p>This time he read it! <em>He really had! </em></p><p>Rodimus was practically vibrating in place as he reclined on the low sofa, grinning to himself as he clutched the datapad in his hands.</p><p>Sure, he had never been anywhere near an actual forge in his life, but it couldn’t be that hard, right? The boost of confidence from his last trial success hadn’t quite faded yet, still putting an extra spring in every one of his steps. This time the feeling was less fragile, less easily shattered by a single mistake than the buoying mere words of praise and flattery. </p><p>Even Megatron hadn’t had anything negative to say about the last trial over the past few days, other than trying to explain why what he’d done was impossible. To hell with his “voice of reason” about <em>physics</em>. <em>Clearly</em> lighting that fuel on fire was possible. He had done it after all, therefore, possible. Besides, it was <em>fuel</em>. Duh. That slag is <em>supposed</em> to burn, never mind what it was actually made of. Sometimes Megatron could be so stupid. It was <em>hilarious</em>.</p><p>And <em>now</em> Megatron couldn't even complain that Rodimus hadn't even <em>looked</em> at his instructions. He definitely looked at them with own damn optics. Even made a whole show of it, having rolled around on the couch dramatically. Not even the old cynic could deny it.</p><p>However, Rodimus did have <em>one</em> more thing he needed to do. Without sparing another thought, he tossed the brief aside where it clattered after its short fall to the ground. </p><p>After pulling out his phone and still splayed out on the couch with the datapad on the floor nearby, he dialed Drift with a practiced thumb.</p><p>“Hey, Megs, I gotta make a phone call—” Huh. Rodimus glanced about the room, finding no visible trace of the old mech. Where’d he disappear off to? Though the loud gurgle of solvent in pipes before splashing against the floor of the adjoining wash rack gave him the answer. Had he even <em>seen</em> Rodimus read the brief?</p><p>“Hello? Rodimus?” Oh, right. Drift. He’d missed the entire ring sequence.</p><p>“Yeah, Drift, my dude, so I got the next one.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p><br/> </p><p>“So,” Rodimus began, leaning his back against the closed door that led to the habsuite’s wash racks, “I’ve got a place I need to be today.”</p><p>There was no response, only the sounds of hot solvent hitting the walls and floor. Dammit. Megatron probably couldn’t hear him over the shower. Deaf old bastard.</p><p>With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the door and turned around to face it, nearly knocking over the surgical kit which had been carefully propped up on the wall near the door. Megatron had been keeping it on his person at almost all times, except to sleep when it would be tucked in the narrow space beneath the recharge slab. Rodimus clenched his fist and smacked it against the surface of the door with a solid sounding clack.</p><p>“Megs!” </p><p>Nothing. </p><p>“Hey! Megan! I’m talking to you!” </p><p>Still nothing. <em>Ugh.</em></p><p>Rodimus smacked the door again with more force. “Hey! C’mon!”</p><p>There was a sound like a confounded “Huh?” followed closed by “Wait your”—that was probably an expletive—”turn!” Now that he thought about it, Rodimus was pretty sure he’d never heard Megatron swear before. Somehow. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.</p><p>Whatever. There were far more pressing matters at hand than an old mech cussing at him.</p><p>Rodimus slapped the door access panel which then flashed green to acknowledge his valid credentials. Apparently the temple staff had felt no need to enforce a locking system for propriety. The staff probably assumed it was fine given their “relationship.” Not that there would be much to hide anyway, unless Megatron had a habit of removing all of his armor plating to clean the undersides and freshly oil each joint. Who had time for clean room levels of sterility? Heck, it was hard to even get that dirty in the first place. Not that Rodimus really wanted to be confronted with the sight of de-plated endoskeleton and raw hydraulics, which probably shouldn’t have been exposed to wash rack solvent anyway, but he felt pretty secure in knowing that he wouldn’t be seeing anything he hadn’t seen before. </p><p>Unfortunately, the temple staff’s level of trust just meant Megatron had nowhere to hide from his presumably favorite buddy, if the flame-painted captain could say so himself. And he would.</p><p>The door slid wide with a rush of cold air and drops of chilly solvent bouncing off the floor as Rodimus stepped into the wash rack.</p><p>“Hey, I gotta go somewhere today—<em>Why is it cold‽</em>” Rodimus shivered, crossing his arms defensively as more of the icy solvent splashed onto his plating. The sudden chill blinded him for a moment, his blue optics briefly glitching off in a cascade of static from the temperature differential. “<em>What’s the matter with you?</em>”</p><p>“<em>Do you mind?</em>” A sopping wet giant, thankfully with all of his plating in place, frowned down at the intruding Prime, having been caught in the embarrassing position of trying to reach an awkward spot on his side where plating overlapped at a strange angle. It was the sort of place dust would tend to collect and be incredibly aggravating. It also seemed to be rather hard to reach given the visible strain in the stretch of the gray mech’s arm. The thought briefly occurred to him to offer to assist, but Rodimus quashed it quickly, knowing that Megatron would object to the notion of needing help showering of all things. Maybe next time. It wasn’t like Megatron hadn’t already picked worse things than dust and grit out of Rodimus’ plating on occasion. “<em>Hot</em> solvent is for comforting and treating the ill. No need to waste energy heating it.”</p><p>“Whatever.” Rodimus waved his hands to the side and shook his head, not really feeling like getting into the ethics of resource and energy consumption right now. Megatron could on for hours about it and now wasn’t the time. “I gotta somewhere in a few minutes and if you want to do your job, you’re going to have to go to.”</p><p>“Beg your pardon?” Megatron slowly, reluctantly dropped his arms, having apparently given up on cleaning that tricky spot in order to process Rodimus’ words. </p><p>“So hurry up and get yourself pretty because I’ve got places to be and I’m going to need your top-rated scowl to keep the fawning masses at bay, okay?”</p><p>Megatron said nothing, only sighing in resignation at the order. It was funny, Rodimus thought, that for someone who answered to no one, the rickety old tank seemed pretty amenable to most—definitely not <em>all</em>—of the racer’s suggestions. He told himself it was because all of his suggestions were awesome and Megatron was simply coming to understand that. No other reason at all.</p><p>“Great, thanks, babe.” Rodimus retreated with a cocky smirk, snapping a finger guns gesture at his co-captain as he slipped backwards into the habsuite like he hadn’t just walked in on someone showering. “You’re the best.”</p><p>A disgruntled “stop that!” could be heard through the door as it slid shut after him. What a joker. If Megatron really didn’t want to be called that, he should really have stopped turning all purple in the face about it to make it less fun. </p><p>Though the air in the habsuite was decidedly warmer than in the wash rack, which Megatron had so <em>thoughtfully</em> turned into a walk-in air conditioner, Rodimus was suddenly keenly aware that he was dripping cold solvent everywhere, a puddle starting to form underneath his feet.</p><p>“Slag.”</p><p>At least the floor was a smooth tile. Easy to clean. Or let air dry. Probably.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yes, that is an interrobang. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Interrobang">‽ </a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The foundry had been Drift’s suggestion, one that Rodimus was certainly hoping would pay off. “Inspiration” was what Drift had called it. The newest task from the Mistress of Flame was to create <em>something</em> via smithing. She didn’t specify <em>what</em> in the instructions and he was allowed to submit his own idea, so supplies could be procured and prepared for him.</p><p>Easy enough.</p><p>The foundry wasn’t far from the temple, no more than a twenty minute walk at most, but they did have to pass through the market and into some of the quieter side streets. Kremex, the city in which the temple was situated, wasn’t <em>large</em> by any Cybertronian standard, but it was laid out in ways that were not the most convenient for non-locals. Streets and districts bumped up against each other with little rhyme or reason, as though they’d sprung up independently before expanding into each other to form a cohesive, heterogeneous whole as the population grew. That was how Megatron had described trying to navigate it on their way over here. Minimus, who had joined them after spotting them in the street, had complained that this zoning free-for-all must be an administrative nightmare. Rodimus just thought it was a freaking maze. Luckily Drift knew where they were going otherwise they would have been doomed to wandering around forever with Megatron and Minimus bickering over how to read a map and whether or not to stop and ask for directions.</p><p>Sure, Rodimus had never done anything like real-life blacksmithing before, but it couldn’t be that hard. He’d played simulation games that included it. One even focused on it. Heat the metal, hit the metal, dunk the metal. Bam. Besides, he could at least see how Camiens did it while they were here. </p><p>With Megatron waiting outside with Minimus, maybe he could really get his focus to cooperate without Mr. Protector breathing down his neck, distracting him with unnecessary concern and attention… and without being mobbed by overzealous devotees. The only other person in here was supposed to be the smith on duty, hard at work on something inside from what Drift had said. </p><p>Besides, Megatron had hardly gotten any time to spend with his friend since they’d touched down on the moon several days prior. He could use the break and chance to reconnect. Rodimus knew they’d been meaning to go to the city’s archives to take in some of the local literature and history, but that plan had been blown to pieces by everything else. A small pang of guilt settled in his fuel tank as he cast one last look over his shoulder at Megatron and Minimus already talking rather animatedly about something or other. He hadn’t meant to interrupt their time together, but at least they had some now, he thought, disappearing into the foundry on Drift’s heels.</p><p>Rodimus followed the white speedster down the steps from the entrance, the workshop built partially into the ground below street-level. The air inside the building was thick and hot, the smells of smoke, burnt oils, and heated melted acrid in his olfactory sensors. There was a light breeze though, gently pulling the air up through a flue in the roof to help the smoke escape. It wasn’t strong enough to cool the air, but it did make the room a touch more comfortable as the breeze wafted calmly by. Something about the smell in the air was familiar, but Rodimus couldn’t place it.</p><p> At the moment, the foundry itself was fairly quiet. No loud clangs from the blows of a hammer striking metal, no rushing from squeezed bellows. Hot coals burned in the hearth built into the wall, waiting for a pair of tongs to delicately press an ingot to the heat. The only really lingering noise came from the street outside, where the muffled echoes of the bustle of Camiens going about their daily business made their way down the stairs into the foundry.</p><p>Towards the far side of the room, a slender, yet heavily plated mech with mostly bronze-colored paint could be seen measuring a slab, preparing it for some project or another as he scratched the surface of the metal with a tool. Rodimus and Drift hadn’t yet been noticed, but logic told him this was most likely the smith that operated this particular foundry.</p><p>For now, Rodimus ignored him, instead turning to look at the various wares on display. Swords. Daggers. Knives. All the pieces Rodimus could see from where he stood at the base of the stairs were ornate. Was the guy who worked here an artisan who just specialized in this style or was there some other reason behind the extra work put into the creations? On the way here, Drift had mentioned the various smithing trades were seen as sacred on Caminus. Maybe that was it.</p><p>A sparkling dagger caught his eye, a broad but short blade with a subtle curve to the guard. The grip was wrapped in a leathery mesh to improve the hold. The mesh was embossed and stained with a pattern that he supposed was supposed to be reminiscent of the whirling winds in a storm. That was pretty cool, he thought, picking it up to get a better look without sparing a thought to whether or not he <em>should</em>.</p><p>“Hey, Drift, look at this one. It’s—”</p><p>A noise like something falling from elsewhere in the room interrupted him. Rodimus jolted, nearly dropping the dagger he’d swiped as he whipped around to look for the source of the sound. Drift had just barely missed getting a new chunk taken out of his armor by the careless blade in Rodimus' hand and got his foot stepped on in the process.</p><p>“<em>Hey,</em>” he yelped. The white speedster yanked his unlucky foot free before sidestepping to put more distance between them. “Watch it!”</p><p>“Sorry—”</p><p>“Ah, Rodimus Prime,” the smith said, hastily bending down to pick up the metal tool he was using to mark something on a flat hunk of… probably steel. The smith bowed his head quickly in apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you come in and I… I wasn’t expecting you. How might I be of assistance?”</p><p>Ah. Right. That was him, a <em>Prime</em>.</p><p>Good to know he could probably get away with petty theft and trespassing on Caminus. Last time he randomly picked up a dagger to have a curious look at it in Nyon all those millions of years ago, he’d gotten chased out of the shop by a burly mech with a hammer for a hand wielding a coal shovel in the other and then had accidentally stolen the dagger in the process. He still had it, in fact. It made <em>great</em> desk doodles. Talk about a five-finger discount.</p><p>Maybe he ought to put the new dagger down though. He didn’t need it and had just wanted to have a look—It was <em>awfully</em> nice though.</p><p>“Is that one to your liking, my lord?”</p><p>“<em>Excuse me?</em>” Rodimus slapped his right hand to his chest in affront, a fortuitously oblique angle preventing him from accidentally stabbing himself with the blade he was still holding. <em>Lord?</em></p><p>“No—I mean, yes. It’s dope as f—” Drift elbowed him in the middle, a reminder to be normal for five minutes. The smith’s face was hard to read, but anxiety seemed to be high on the list of what he was experiencing at the moment. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool, dude. Uh, what’s your name?”</p><p>“Whetstone of Fabrikas, my lord.” Fabrikas must have been another settlement on Caminus, Rodimus guessed.</p><p>“Well, Whetstone, nice to meet you—Do you, uh, maybe mind telling me a little about what you do here?”</p><p>The smith quickly nodded reverently to the speedsters. Well, mostly to Rodimus. It seemed that everywhere he went, his friends were getting second rate treatment. That felt not great.</p><p>“Well, by trade,” he began, “I am a bladesmith mostly, but I occasionally dabble in other smithing work.” The bronze smith gestured with one hand at the walls of bladed tools and weaponry that lined the foundry. The tools seemed to be a little less decorative, now that Rodimus was further into the foundry and could get a better view, particularly the shovels and other objects of presumably utilitarian purpose.</p><p>“As it turns out,” Whetstone continued, ”your friend here come by his shop earlier with a medic. He—”</p><p>“Drift,” Rodimus corrected, as though the smith ought to know his friend’s name. The third degree treatment of those around him was <em>really</em> starting to fritz his circuits.</p><p>“<em>Drift</em> seemed rather sorely tempted to buy out my entire stock of blades before his companion had talked him out of it.”</p><p>An awkward moment passed as Drift chuckled in embarrassment, hand behind his neck as he tried to look anywhere but at either Rodimus or the smith. Whetstone cleared his vocalizer with a polite cough, clearly hoping to move past this conversational impasse.</p><p>“Would you like me to show you some of what I’m currently working on,” Whetstone asked, indicating the work that the Prime had accidentally interrupted. Curious about the process, he had readily agreed to watch with an enthusiastic nod. It wasn’t like he didn’t have time. Maybe he’d even learn something. </p><p>Quickly taking hold of the marking tool from earlier, Whetstone got back to work scratching the presumably steel plate on his worktable. While working, all of the anxious energy seemed to drain from the smith’s frame, as though being a master of his trade could overcome all of his worries.</p><p>“What are you making?” Rodimus asked, apparently leaning too close to the table for Drift’s comfort to get a better look. Grumbling, Drift pulled him back by the arms, but the success was debatable as the red mech instinctively resisted the tug. In the half-sparked struggle, he dropped the dagger he'd borrowed. It clattered to the floor, noticed only by the smith whose optics followed it down. With a resigned sigh, Whetstone got back to his measurements.</p><p>“Blanks. I’ll use a press to get punch out the basic shape of a dagger blade, but I need to see how many I’ll get out of this piece before I actually cut them out. Measure twice, punch once.”</p><p>Wait.</p><p>Sacred profession. Whetstone was a professional. A <em>sacred</em> professional.</p><p>
  <em>Aha.</em>
</p><p>“Hey, Whetstone, could you tell me maybe a bit about Solus?” Drift made a strangled noise and the smith nearly dropped his marking tool again. </p><p>Rodimus coughed and clapped his hands together before offering a clarification. </p><p>“I wanna hear it from a layperson, bro. You know, get me the <em>real</em> down-low they don’t talk about at sermons, yeah?”</p><p>The Mistress of Flame had given him a general overview of her, that she was one of the original thirteen Primes and was known for her engineering and wisdom and whatnot. That was basically it though. Sure, in more and fancier words, but there wasn’t much substance there.</p><p>“Of course, my lord. I suppose… after so long you must not remember how it was back then.”</p><p>Whetstone was right. Rodimus remembered nothing, but frankly, he wasn’t sure if he was <em>supposed</em> to. He also wasn’t entirely sure he bought being the reincarnation of an ancient god in the first place, but he’d certainly gone along for the ride this long already. Why bother pumping the brakes now?</p><p>“Nah, dude, I can barely remember if I ate breakfast today. Forget about a lifetime ago.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We’ve been here for a million chapters and didn’t bother to name any settlements yet, oopsie. The wiki is also rather sparse in non-Cybertronian toponyms so I GUESS IT'S UP TO ME.</p><p>Kremex is derived from Latin ‘cremare’ - ‘to burn’.</p><p>Fabrikas is derived from Latin ‘fabrica’ - ‘workshop’.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Unlike last time, Megatron had no real grasp of the details of the upcoming trial. Rodimus had subspaced the datapad containing the brief before Megatron had even gotten free of the wash racks after someone had decided to invade his privacy. That was fine. He would simply read it later, probably after Rodimus fell asleep for the night. Provided that the datapad was not still collecting dust in the younger mech’s subspace. He would not <em>stoop</em> to rifling around in there to collect the datapad. </p>
<p>Nor would he literally stoop to enter the foundry, clearly meant for average Camiens and not “giant” Cybertronians, unless he absolutely <em>had</em> to go in. Maybe if Rodimus had gotten improbably stuck on or under some piece of equipment or some other statistically unlikely contrivance occurred. Waiting outside on the street was more than sufficient, especially since there wasn’t much foot traffic in this particular portion of the side-street as there seemed to be elsewhere in this district.</p>
<p>“Megatron, you seem… distracted.” Minimus reached out and patted a knee-guard, since he was rather of an awkward height to pat a shoulder without engaging in a little mountaineering. The intent was still there. “Is everything alright?”</p>
<p>Well, aside from his impending demise, now without the luxury of a pre-appointed time, and Rodimus running around like an idiot, he was <em>perfectly fine</em>. Nothing <em>remotely</em> stressful <em>at all</em>. With a sigh, he quietly nodded, hoping his friend wouldn’t push further. He saw no point in trying to pry apart worries right now, especially when they were nothing that anyone could do anything about. He would eventually be tried and punished and Rodimus would continue to be bold and thoughtless; these were undeniable facts.</p>
<p>“I take it it’s this whole business with Rodimus and the local cult, is it not?”</p>
<p>“No, he’s….” That was the start of a lie and they both knew it “I… apologize, Minimus. You’re right. I have been… distracted.”</p>
<p>“Do you… feel up to talking about  it?” That was awfully considerate of the loadbearer, especially given how Minimus himself wasn’t generally very open with feelings. Then again, that really only made it clear to Megatron that he must have been telegraphing his own anxieties quite strongly if Minimus, who had hardly seen him lately, took <em>immediate</em> notice.</p>
<p>He sighed again. Might as well. If anyone would understand the many weights Megatron was trying, and apparently failing, to stoically bear, it would be their second-in-command.</p>
<p>“He’s brash, foolhardy. Tell him something is impossible and he will find some way to do it just to <em>spite</em> the fact that he was told he couldn’t. He’s reckless and unafraid.” Megatron waved a frustrated hand to the side, opting to stare at the intricately carved pavement beneath his feet. Even in the side-streets the Camiens thought make things of beauty. </p>
<p>Of course, he knew he was preaching to the choir. Minimus knew Rodimus and his shenanigans very well, having served under the dolt for years and prior to that having known each other in the army. He heaved an exasperated sigh. </p>
<p>“He has argued with <em>gods</em>—It’s just as well that <em>someone</em> thinks he should <em>be</em> one.”</p>
<p>“Yes, well, he’s always been like that.” Megatron saw Minimus fidget out the corner of his vision, the green minibot wringing his hands together helplessly like he was unsure what to be doing with them. “At least since Nyon after what Zeta did to the place.”</p>
<p><em>Zeta.</em> So Minimus didn’t know what had <em>actually</em> happened. It would have made sense for the Autobots to suppress it, he supposed. Truthfully, he hadn’t really let it spread amongst his own ranks either. Zeta <em>had</em> been the catalyst after all and had been a politically advantageous scapegoat for both factions, not some no-name punk making a split second decision. Shaking his head, Megatron decided that it would be up to Rodimus to share that secret if he ever chose to.</p>
<p>“Understandable,” he said, content to let the matter drop for now. It wasn’t the time, not for that. </p>
<p>“You!” A sharp voice from off to the side drew his attention to the sight of an all-too-familiar white and black mech approaching them.</p>
<p>“Who’s this?” Prowl asked, jabbing an accusatory servo in the direction of the green minibot. “<em>He’s</em> not on the ship manifest. I can't say I'm surprised you're in the habit of picking up stowaways."</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Rodimus wasn’t sure really what to expect when he asked Whetstone to tell him more about Solus Prime, especially since he hadn’t been particularly specific about it. Then again, his own knowledge of mythology, let alone the local variety, was admittedly poor enough that he wasn’t sure <em>what</em> to ask. That left him more than a little at the mercy of chance. Maybe he should have started digging around for information sooner, especially given that he was staying at the <em>temple</em> of all places. Oh well. No time like the present.</p>
<p>"She was the wisest of the Thirteen Primes,” Whetstone began, still scratching the metal slab in measured little arcs. “Serene. Dignified. Creative. She made many relics as you surely know by now. The Matrix of Leadership to store wisdom and knowledge, to pass it down from one leader to another, to select a leader for our people.” Rodimus presumed he meant their species and not just the Camiens, given that the historical figure of Solus, assuming she and any of the other mythological Primes had actually existed, lived before the colonies had been established. There was a chance he was assuming wrong but who was the supposed god here? Was Whetstone really going to argue if the Prime objected? Probably not.</p>
<p>Still, so far, that meshed with what the Mistress of Flame had said. Whetstone continued to reiterate much of Rodimus had already been told but Drift’s hands still lightly holding him back by the elbows as he leaned precariously over the worktable reminded him not to interrupt. Hearing information he already knew was grating, but he couldn’t just fast forward through it. Whetstone didn’t know what he’d already been told. Since much of it was word for word what the Mistress of Flame had said, he could at least infer this particular smith was a regular attendee of services at the temple.</p>
<p>Rodimus nodded along in agreement after a few minutes of the same general party line that he’d already received, straightening back up. Drift dropped his grip, apparently having decided that his friend was done being a hazard to their host for at least the next little while. The Prime put his hands on his hips now that Drift had finally decided to let go of him.</p>
<p>“In my profession, we strive to be calm and collected like she was, to better focus on our craft,” the smith continued. That still tracked for now, he supposed, given that Whetstone seemed to be in the zone while actually doing his job, hands still carefully marking out locations for blanks in the steel slab on the bench, but something didn’t match. </p>
<p>Rodimus just didn’t know enough of the underlying myths to dispute the “calm and collected” interpretation. Out of the corner of his optic, he noticed Drift looking between him and Whetstone disbelievingly, but the white speedster kept quiet for now. The captain could practically feel the teasing text message he would be receiving later about how unlike him the description Whetstone provided was.</p>
<p>Nonetheless, this wasn’t getting Rodimus the information he wanted. It was all too <em>general</em>. Better ask something a bit more narrow in focus, he thought, idly tapping a fingertip against his chin.</p>
<p>“Whetstone, could you tell me about a relic?”</p>
<p>“Yes, of course." The smith paused his hands, as though trying to choose an appropriate relic. "Surely, my Lord, you’ve heard of a relic called the Star Saber.”</p>
<p>“Kind of, sounds vaguely familiar, yeah.” Rodimus lifted a hand to his chin in thought, still eying the freshly carved markings in the slab. He'd heard of something with that name before but he mostly only thought of the bastard mech by the same name. “But, uh, let’s say it doesn’t ring a bell.”</p>
<p>“Well, it was supposedly destroyed long ago, or so they say, but Solus Prime forged this particular sword to be impossible to defeat in combat.” He wasn’t sure how that was supposed to work unless they hadn’t invented slug-throwers or blasters yet, but sure, he’d play along. </p>
<p>Still… this relic piqued his interest.</p>
<p><em>Impossible to defeat.</em> Hm.</p>
<p>“I'm listening—Say, Whetstone, do you know what this Star Saber was supposed to look like?”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Having apparently annoyed poor Whetstone enough after another half an hour, Rodimus bade the anxious smith farewell, tucking the dataslug he’d received into his subspace. About to head towards the steps leading back out to the street, he noticed something shining on the ground out of the corner of his optic. </p>
<p>
  <em>Oh, slag, the dagger!</em>
</p>
<p>He’d nearly forgotten he had dropped the damned thing by the smith's worktable. Whipping around, he scurried over to snatch it back up. “My bad,” he offered apologetically before putting it back on the rack that he was pretty sure was the right one. It was quite a nice dagger too. Maybe he’d buy it later. Recompense for having shared some invaluable information about one of Solus Prime’s many relics.</p>
<p>“Drift, you coming?” Rodimus called, having already bounded halfway up the stairs to the outside when he noticed the lack distinct lack of a white speedster on his six.</p>
<p>“I’ll catch up!” Huh. Probably buying something. Whatever, that was cool. Dude was living his best life with more sharp objects.</p>
<p>Upon stepping out onto the street again, instead of being met with smiling but stern faces, Rodimus was met with two tense old mechs. Megatron was frowning like he’d just been personally insulted by a passing mechanopigeon and Minimus stood stiffly, tension throughout his frame, a bit like he’d seen a ghost.</p>
<p>“You alright? You both look a little… uh… unnerved.”</p>
<p>Megatron simply shook his head, but Minimus waved his palms dismissively.</p>
<p>“No, no, quite alright, Rodimus,” he said. “I assure you.”</p>
<p>“Uh-huh, sure, Mims, no worries.” Rodimus stood up on his tiptoes to see better see the mechs walking down the street over Minimus’ head before anyone, probably an overprotective Megatron, could pull him back down to a more stable position. A white and black door could be seen disappearing around a corner. </p>
<p>Of course, Prowl would be <em>suspicious</em> of the recent developments, but had it <em>really</em> required him to visit Caminus in person? Something here was amiss. Sure, Prowl had been wandering around Kremex for a few days and hadn't done much, but Rodimus still didn’t like it. The thought of him having been anywhere near Megatron made his core go cold and his plating tighten. </p>
<p>What had the nosy commander said to his friends? It generally took a lot to make the old poet uneasy and if <em>his</em> nerves were on edge, Minimus’ somewhat less steady nerves were certain to follow.</p>
<p>“No worries,” he mumbled, still on his toes. Rodimus was too focused on the corner where Prowl vanished to notice a large, black hand reaching out to him and then settling firmly on his brightly-painted upper arm.</p>
<p>“Rodimus, we should refuel—” </p>
<p>The red speedster energetically clapped his palm over the back of that space-invading hand. Megatron was right, of course, they’d probably skipped breakfast—not that he could remember—and it was already past midday. That problem would solve itself whenever they got moving and located a vendor with an interesting selection. Those were everywhere in the capital city here, so he was hardly worried. The fuel was about as new and enticing as the blades he’d seen in the foundry.</p>
<p>
  <em>Wait.</em>
</p>
<p>The young Prime grinned as he looked up into the older captain’s rapidly purpling face. Perhaps Drift’s plan to search for inspiration at a foundry had paid off after all.</p>
<p>“Megs, I know what I’m going to make!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sounds of a hammer contacting hot metal echoed throughout the room, reverberating from the high ceiling and the flues allowing smoke to escape. The beats of the hammer against the raw material were measured, focused. Work was one of the few things Solus <em>could</em> focus on. The creation of new tools and items always drew her in, kept her interested. The familiar rhythm of the strikes and the sweltering atmosphere of the forge made her feel at home, comfortable. She didn’t even notice the door on the far end of the foundry opening.</p><p>“Solus.” </p><p>The slightly-built Prime might have imagined someone saying her name. It happened occasionally, what with the echo in this place. Besides, with the loud work she did, she couldn’t always trust her hearing. Solus continued to hammer away at her latest creation.</p><p>“Solus!”</p><p>That <em>could</em> have still been a trick of the acoustics in the foundry, but it was becoming less likely. Smirking to herself, she decided to wait once more. Just in case.</p><p>“<em>Solus!</em>”</p><p>Aha, this was no phantom caller, but a welcome and expected guest.</p><p>“One second!” she hollered over her shoulder. This new trinket was almost complete. Just a few more hits of the hammer—And it was done. </p><p>Solus flipped up the visor that had been protecting her optics. With a laugh she threw the hammer down to the side with one arm, practically twirling as she tossed the newest bauble into the nearby vat of quenching oil. The hot metal hissed upon contact with the cold liquid. </p><p>Her creation momentarily taken care of, Solus whipped around to face her visitor lurking just beyond the doorway. The large frame of the heavily-armored Darklander practically filled the entryway. He had had to duck just to get past the door. She pointed at him with a grin.</p><p>“There you are, Megan! I’ve been waiting for you <em>all day</em>!”</p><p>The foundry, while spacious, was crowded with devices and tools and materials. Anything not bolted down or built into the structure itself was haphazardly placed, left wherever she had been when she stopped thinking about whatever the item was. She had to pick her way across the obstacle course she had inadvertently created for herself in order to reach her guest. For all of his skill on the battlefield, Megatronus considered Solus’ workplace a “death trap” and rarely ventured beyond the entryway. Her protective apron had only gotten stuck once or twice while navigating the chaos.</p><p>Finally nearing the end of the makeshift path, the smith leapt right at him, vaulting over some supplies to close the last bit of distance. Instead of either bouncing off his broad chest plate or falling to the floor, she was caught up in strong arms. Just like she knew she would be. Without fail, he always caught her, no matter how much soot and oil she usually unintentionally smeared on him from laboring at the forge. Besides, with the almost black color of his heavy plating anyway, it was basically impossible to notice the smudges.</p><p>“I… was delayed.” He probably had been. His job was chaotic at the best of times, but that made the time they got to spend together all the more precious. Megatronus spent so much time wandering but he always came back. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, sure, you’re here now. That’s what matters.” Throwing her arms around his neck, she pressed a melodramatically loud kiss to the side of his frowning face to embarrass him. Kicking her feet happily, she let go of his neck and pinched his cheeks, what she could grab around the armored plating that kept his stupid noggin in one piece anyway. “Besides, you’re just in time! I finished it!”</p><p>“I thought I was late?”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter!” With a loud laugh, she jumped out of his grasp before scrambling back across her minefield of a workspace to the quenching oil. Dunking her arm into the blackening, oxidizing oil with a splash, she rifled around in there, trying to find the stupid thing she had <em>just</em> finished. Where did the damn thing go—Ah! Found it!</p><p>Solus yanked the object out, raising it high over her head. Oil sprayed everywhere, the oxidized sludge from the shock-heated mineral oil sticking to her arm where it began to slowly ooze in thick droplets. She could practically see Megatronus grimace from there.</p><p>“Look at it!” she said, gleefully spinning herself around a circle. The item resembled a trapezoid on the sides, broadening to frame a bright, glowing blue sphere in the center, encased on round, interlocked plates to keep it secure.</p><p>“I was worried that the heat was going to crack the photonic crystal, but <em>it</em> <em>didn’t</em>! Isn’t that great?” She probably could have simply shaped the holder and <em>then</em> added the crystalline sphere, but oh well. What was done was done.</p><p>“Yes, of course—” Megatronus was always so emotionally stunted on the outside—aside from his temper—but so warm on the inside. What a complete dork, but that was one of the things she liked the best about him. She just figured most of it was a result the years spent as a nomadic wanderer, compounded by not exactly having many friends. He was not… popular, but that was fine. He didn’t need to be.</p><p>With one arm, she tucked the object to her chest before making the mad scramble back to her lover’s side. Solus shoved the object into his face, a wordless demand for his undivided attention.</p><p>“Babe, <em>look at it</em>!” she whined with a smile, jumping up and down on her feet and never once coming anywhere near his stupidly tall height. Solus happily let the object go when he gingerly reached out for it. His face was calm, curious as he held the object a little further away at a better viewing distance.</p><p>“What is it exactly?”</p><p>“It’s, uh, a kind of archive. A data matrix. It’s supposed to collect experiences, y’know, like wisdom. But this one you wear it inside instead of having to plug into an access point or carry around a bunch of data storage, so you can’t accidentally drop it or forget it.” Like she did with other things <em>all</em> of the time.</p><p>“Interesting.” He paused, turning it this way and that in the orange light of the foundry. “Very clever. Excellent work, my love. Now… what will you do with it?”</p><p>“Okay, so I haven’t thought <em>that</em> far ahead, but it seemed like a great idea when I started doodling it up.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>During their extended vacation, Rodimus had gotten comfortable with the near-constant presence of his co-captain. Perhaps too comfortable. Unlike on the ship, if he woke in the middle of the night, he wouldn’t have to panic that the larger mech’s return from the other universe hadn’t been some sort of fever dream. All he needed to do was look to his right to confirm reality. </p><p>Rodimus had almost always had difficulty sleeping, even before certain events happened that would occasionally wake him up in the middle of the night to scream. This time, luckily, it was mostly residual nerves of preparing for the next trial that kept him up as opposed to night terrors and flashbacks. On the <em>Lost Light</em>, that was an unfortunately normal occurrence for many crew members. That was part of the rationale of assigning roommates, so no one would wake up alone. He'd been the exception. Captains didn't get roommates. He could have called Drift after waking up but it wouldn’t have been the same. No one was ever already there when he woke up.</p><p>Until now.</p><p>And Rodimus hadn't been the only one to wake up alone on that ship.</p><p>Megatron hadn't woken up screaming. Not yet during their vacation at least. It was probably only a matter of time. Rodimus had heard screaming during late night bridge shifts that could have only come from habsuite 113. Still, this time, the old mech stirred and twitched, like he was just barely under, pinned down by some kind of nightmare. This had happened a lot since they’d started sharing a recharge slab. Well, he wasn't going to wake up alone tonight.</p><p>"Hey. <em>Hey.</em>" Rodimus gently nudged the lump on his right with an elbow, only to get a quiet gasp in response as that lump jerked into consciousness. What… a <em>weird</em> sound. He'd never heard that one before. It was almost <em>vulnerable</em>. Maybe that wasn't the best way to wake him up but at least he didn't scream. That would probably get a unit of Torchbearers breaking down the door to see what was the matter. "Megs, you awake?"</p><p>A long silence lapsed in the dark before he got a response.</p><p>"Now? Yes. <em>Unfortunately.</em>" What a grump. It was a captains-only sleepover every day until they had to leave and he was gonna be a grouch the entire time, wasn't he?</p><p><em>Lame.</em> "I grace you with the <em>gift</em> of <em>me</em> and you're gonna be an aft. I see how it is," he teased with another nudge.</p><p>Rodimus sat up. The sharp yank of cables plugged in between his shoulders tugged him back down with a yelp and <em>thud</em>—Never mind that sitting up thing. The unhappily awake giant stirred, an arm reaching out to pat blindly at empty space, as though to check on him. </p><p>"Nah, I'm good." Rodimus lightly smacked the intruding hand away before unplugging the recharge cables with a <em>click</em>. He dropped them, letting them flop to dangle off the side of the cushioned slab.</p><p>
  <em>There.</em>
</p><p>Now untethered, he sat up, crossing his legs in the process to stay upright more easily. Maybe if he could distract his co-captain from whatever dream had been plaguing him…. It was tempting to ask what it had been about but that might have made it worse.</p><p>"The Mistress of Flame said something when we got first got here that was kind of, I don't know, uh, funny. Your name is '<em>auspicious</em>' somehow. Do you know what was up with that?"</p><p>Now that he was upright, Rodimus could get a better look to see how his friend was doing. Sure, the automatic lights had turned off more than an hour ago, but he was becoming used to compensating for the ever-present darkness. Besides someone, not naming any names, decided to stubbornly keep their optics offline, which made making out expressions a little trickier. His low-light vision was better but not… that great. At least the soft blue glow from his own optics and some of their biolights helped illuminate the area a little bit. </p><p>Megatron shrugged, as much as one could do lying down, plugged into the recharge equipment. "My best guess is that my assigned name derives from the same collection of mythology that the Camiens revere. <em>Coincidence.</em>" Rodimus generally didn't believe in coincidences, neither of them did, but he also knew that Megatron generally didn't go by the extended version of his name even if it was <em>technically</em> on his documentation. Maybe the old mech simply figured that the Mistress of Flame, in her zeal, was seeing a link that in reality meant nothing. Maybe he was right. It probably meant nothing.</p><p>Rodimus leaned forward, resting his arms and elbows on the old mech's middle. Since he wasn't immediately dislodged and the heavy, scarred plate beneath him was warm, he got comfortable.</p><p>"Common practice, especially in Tarn, was for miners to be named for associations with death, endings, disasters, and general destruction. An on-the-nose commentary on our typically short lifespans." That sounded perhaps more bitter than Megatron probably intended. Then again spending the better part a million years, especially so early in someone's life, being surrounded by and reminded of death constantly would <em>easily</em> make a person more than a little bitter. Rodimus could relate somewhat, having grown up in the gutters and rotten underbelly of Nyon.</p><p>"The mech onlined right after me was assigned the name Mortillus, since the staff that day were feeling particularly pretentious." As though Megatron wasn't himself, along with his name, pretentious. Rodimus scoffed. Then again if this was common practice for miners, no wonder no one batted an eye at the idea of a miner-turned-warlord basically named Death Doomson. "We generally called him Mort. Mort died a month into service."</p><p>He waved his hand in an arc, indicating a person simply keeling over. The blue light bouncing off the hand cast funnily-shaped shadows on their frames. "Faulty fuel pump." And it seemed like Mort had been one of the lucky ones from what Rodimus had heard over the years.</p><p>"There was a mech named Backdraft—doubly unfortunate in appellation—who died in a tunnel collapse a week after starting work. The next week, Rockslide died in a gas explosion. Cave-in managed to fall off of a roof right into an open smelter. And they <em>still</em> sold those ingots. Disgusting. All of this in my first year of service."</p><p>Rodimus opened his mouth to ask something else but as though some sixth sense was kicking in, Megatron interrupted him.</p><p>"Now <em>please</em> go back to sleep." Ha. He said "please." And awfully bold of him to assume Rodimus had fallen asleep in the first place and hadn't just laid there staring at the ceiling blankly for hours in an attempt to bore himself unconscious.</p><p>"Sure, babe." He gave his companion a solid pat on the arm and laid back down before he could be told off for calling him that in private when there was no audience to perform for.</p><p>Wait.</p><p>He was missing something, realizing when he slapped his hand on the empty padding near his head.</p><p>"Aw, <em>fuck</em>, the cables—" A large, gray arm moved and suddenly his cables were within reach. “Thanks.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"Canonically" the original Megatronus’ name was stricken from the historical records on Cybertron and all of the colonies, referring to him only as “the Fallen” but I’ve taken liberties with this canon by breaking it in half and saying “no” very firmly. Also we don’t get to discuss the weird time circle of who was named after whom thanks to Shockwave. Just know it in your heart and <i>giggle</i>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Prowl wasn’t <em>satisfied</em> with the information he had been able to gather, but he had enough to at least report in. Ideally he would have been able to provide Optimus with a status update sooner, but some information had to be confirmed and corroborated before he was willing to present it to the Prime. After setting his stack of datapads in front of him on the desk, the commander reached out to flip on the stationary commlink. The little blue holographic circle projected above it, crackling slightly while it waited for input. The hasty transcriptions of the recordings he’d made since arriving littered the sides of the his cramped workspace in the habsuite aboard the <em>Lost Light</em>.</p><p>Grumbling, he punched the number into the user interface, bypassing the automated phone tree by instinctively adding a null glyph to the end of the dialing sequence. Prowl didn’t have time to listen to the whole damn thing for millionth time, especially since he knew exactly who and what he needed. </p><p>“Optimus Prime,” he said, from experience knowing when in the message he could interrupt the voice and still have it process his request. The estimated quarter of an hour long wait time was ridiculous, but a personal comm frequency didn’t have the reach he needed from Caminus, forcing him to wait. Good thing this particular report didn’t constitute an emergency, at least not by High Command’s standards, standards that Prowl thought were frankly outdated and didn’t exactly apply to any situation involving Megatron running amok somewhere.</p><p>Still, Prowl would be able to use the time to peruse his notes one last time, to make sure there wasn’t something obvious hiding in plain sight that he’d just been missing. Even the most minuscule detail could have been important, some piece of verbal or situational trace evidence to crack the old warlord’s nefarious scheme wide open.</p><p>“Prowl, do you realize what time it is?” Optimus’ voice sounded groggy. How could he have been sleeping at a time like this? When their most dangerous enemy was running around unchained and avoiding his fate? Everything they had worked for since the end of the war was in jeopardy and <em>Optimus Prime</em> wasn’t taking the situation seriously enough. Had Rodimus’ carefree attitude somehow rubbed off on him? Never mind that mechs needed sleep. That was just an excuse for the lazy to let situations spiral out of control. He doubted Megatron had been sleeping, so why should he? Why should Optimus?</p><p>Prowl frowned at the holographic projection of his leader’s masked face.</p><p>“Yes, of course I do.” He picked up one of his datapads, tapping its edge against the desk to draw attention to it and the information it contained. “I have a report to make, as we had agreed. You wanted weekly reports, didn’t you?”</p><p>“<em>At two in the morning?</em>”</p><p>“It’s <em>three</em> in the <em>afternoon</em> here in Kremex, a perfectly appropriate time for a report, Prime.” These timezones were unworkable if Optimus expected all contacts to be in accordance with Iaconian time and business hours. This investigation would wait for no mech and Optimus needed to be ready, kept abreast of all developments.</p><p>“Very well, Prowl,” Optimus sighed. “What do you have to report?”</p><p>“Firstly and… interestingly,” he started, “the Camiens have been oddly forthcoming with information.” And accommodating. After he’d fallen asleep in the shadow of that statue a number of days ago, Prowl had awoken a few hours later with a carefully quilted thermal tarpaulin draped across him by some random good Samaritan. Now it was draped across his recharge slab, the brown and green triangular pattern making his habsuite just a touch more cozy. Might as well keep it, he had thought, having been unable to track down the owner to return the item.</p><p>“While I was unable to observe the events of the first trial in-person due to some… confounding variables,” he continued, thinking that it was the nicest way he’d probably ever referred to Whirl. “I was able to reconstruct a timeline of events from temple staff, spectators, and more upstanding crew members. Of course some details were obvious bullshit that couldn’t be confirmed or corroborated and so I’ve excluded those from the full report I’ll be sending you.” Why waste Optimus’ time with nonsense that wouldn’t generate any leads? Prowl would simply keep those details in his own personal records to submit if they ever became relevant.</p><p>Prowl paused, clutching his datapad tightly while watching Optimus’ expression for any changes. No far there were none, at least not that could be seen around the mask covering the lower portion of the Prime's face.</p><p>“For the most part, it appears Rodimus lit some fuel on fire with that questionable upgrade of his. Hardly fantastic and I fail to see how it constitutes a <em>miracle</em> but witnesses report it was some supposedly noncombustible fuel substitute. Either way, in the process, he nearly burnt down the room in the temple the event took place in.” Rodimus was a walking hazard and always had been. </p><p>“And yet they’re declining to charge him for arson.” The Camiens were setting a precedent of diplomatic immunity for Rodimus that Prowl didn’t care for. While he doubted that idiot was really at risk of committing anything really reprehensible on purpose, a worry was nagging in the back of his processor that this immunity could potentially extend to Megatron, whose heinous actions were a matter of public record, by proxy.  Now <em>that</em> possibility Prowl just couldn’t have. He ignored the slight cracking of the casing on the datapad in his hand before abruptly setting it aside.</p><p>Optimus nodded in that sage way of his that usually inspired confidence in Autobots. Prowl only felt ill at ease that his leader couldn’t see the forest for the trees, perhaps blinded by his hopes that Megatron had really found his way back to the "straight and narrow." </p><p>The Prime had always felt some sort of responsibility for Megatron's course in life, somehow, even when the tractor-trailer had still been Orion Pax. Prowl couldn’t tell him the truth. While he normally cared little for sparing feelings, he couldn’t do it to Optimus. Not yet, not until he was ready to finally be done with his labors and not until Megatron had finally been neutralized. Megatron was <em>Prowl’s</em> mistake. <em>He</em> had failed to contain the uprising in Kaon, after all. If he had just....</p><p>“Perhaps there is a cultural component that we’re unaware of as outsiders. I can reach out to Mistress of Flame for additional clarification. She has already confirmed to me that the trials are being treated as legitimate by Camien authorities.”</p><p>Legitimate? <em>Bah!</em></p><p>But he couldn’t say that to Optimus’ face, not right now. He didn’t have enough to back up such insubordination to one of the few mechs that actually had Prowl’s respect. Instead, he just needed to carry on with his report. There would be time to argue later when he had a more solid foundation from which to make his point. Everything right now was circumstantial at best and decidedly not a complete picture, only very suggestive.</p><p>“Furthermore, it does appear that in public, Megatron and Rodimus are posing as a long-established conjunxed pair, in accordance with Ultra Magnus’ original report last week. I have observed that they share accommodations, meals, and accompany each other in public, with Megatron pretending to be Rodimus’ ‘<em>humble</em>’ guard.” Prowl sneered with derision at the very notion as he held up his hands to fulfill the air quote gesture. </p><p>The entire thing was an asinine <em>charade</em>. A spectacle to waste time that could be spent getting their home planet back on its feet while an idiot played pretend on stage and a manipulative monster pulled Rodimus' puppet strings from behind the curtain.</p><p>“It seems the Mistress of Flame hasn’t bothered to submit any Cybertronian public records requests to verify anything as it’s all easily refutable. I’m attaching audio and transcripts from some conversations the day after the first of those so-called ‘<em>trials</em>’ for you now, but there is <em>one</em> thing you should know before you listen to them, Prime.”</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“It seems to me that Rodimus is being set up to act this way against his will. He’s lying at a level even more absurd than his usual braggartism.  I feel like it’s possible he’s being kept under some chemical influence so that he remains pliant.”</p><p>Optimus narrowed his optics doubtfully, but remained silent, seemingly waiting for the data transfer first.</p><p>Prowl snapped up a dataslug from the pile next to his recording device and plugged it into the comm device, selecting the necessary files, including the full text of his formal report, from the interface before sending them off for Optimus to peruse.</p><p>“I see. One moment while I listen to these, please.” </p><p>A few minutes of silence passed, Optimus’ expression never once wavering while he listened to the audio files that Prowl had sent him. </p><p>“Prowl, you do realize how ridiculous that sounds, don’t you?”</p><p>“… <em>Ridiculous?</em>”</p><p>“He’s just hungover like a raw recruit who had a little too much at a party." Optimus laughed dryly. "Don’t you remember being young and foolish, Prowl?”</p><p>“No.” Young, yes. Foolish, also yes, but he wasn’t going to own up to that.</p><p>“Very well, but I think you may wish to put that particular line of inquiry on the back-burner unless there’s more to bolster it.”</p><p>“I will still keep an eye on the situation.” At least Optimus had the decency to not make a comment about the fact that, at the moment, Prowl only had one eye to keep on anything. He coughed to banish the thought.</p><p> “While I’ve seen some <em>minor</em> suspicious behavior from the crew members,” he said, with the understanding that of course a crew led by two lunatics would have at least <em>some</em> inherent baseline suspicious behaviors. “I haven’t seen anything particularly noteworthy, beyond the fact that I’ve only seen Ultra Magnus on <em>one</em> occasion, which was when I arrived. My observations are still in the report, but there’s really only one more concerning detail that I wanted to bring to your attention.”</p><p>Optimus’ patience was clearly wearing thin, if the mask couldn’t contain the exasperation forming lines across the Prime’s face.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“There is a green minibot that I have spotted on numerous occasions in Megatron’s company,” he said, poking at the commlink interface again to send Optimus an image of the minibot in question. “He has a prominent emblem on his face, not unlike the one used by the defunct House of Ambus. He was introduced to me as Minimus but he doesn’t appear anywhere on the crew manifest and I was unable to locate public records on a 'Minimus.' Megatron claims he was reportedly picked up on Luna 1 by Rodimus, but I couldn’t find any records to corroborate that either.”</p><p>“Interesting, keep me informed, but… Prowl?”</p><p>“Yes, Prime?”</p><p>“Keep me informed at a decent time of day.” The commlink clicked off, Optimus’ image collapsing back down into the generic blue circle.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The small cups of fuel, glowing in a variety of colors, seemed to be mocking Megatron this morning as he sat cross-legged at the low table in their habsuite. Two rows of fuel had been brought for breakfast by temple staff, one for each occupant, along with some assorted solid dishes. The next trial was this evening and Rodimus had yet to disclose the nature of it to him. Not knowing left an uneasiness in his fuel pump that made the thought of consuming breakfast rather less than appealing. </p><p>Still he ought to try at the very least. It was important to fuel early in the day, even if he didn’t <em>always</em> practice what he preached about health.</p><p>He cautiously reached out to pick up a bite-sized piece of what looked to be gelled energon with metal filings of some type suspended inside. It was hard to guess the metal with the purple of the energon itself obscuring the color of the filings. It was <em>probably</em> iron, a common additive and necessary for supporting a lot of vital functions. His fuel pump twinged at the thought of eating but he threw it in his mouth all the same.</p><p>Bitter and acidly sour. Almost medicinal.</p><p>
  <em>Copper.</em>
</p><p>An unpleasant complement to the savory flavor of the gelled energon. That did <em>nothing</em> to dispel the nausea, another wave of the sickeningly green feeling pushing up from his middle to torment him.</p><p>Grimacing as he swallowed the offending snack down, he nudged the plate with the remainder of the gelled pieces towards Rodimus’ side of the table. Megatron had never cared for copper. It reminded him of the antimicrobial copper caplets that used to be distributed when he was a new-build. Necessary, sure, but he didn’t want to have to taste the damn thing. Maybe Rodimus could better appreciate the flavor. By the time the younger mech came online, lead-coated copper caplets had been developed which had a far less offensive taste.</p><p>“Don’t like it?” Rodimus looked up from a datapad he’d been using to play some idle game, lounged on his side on the floor along his side of the table.</p><p>“Not hungry,” he lied, in the vain hope that his co-captain wouldn’t take notice, too preoccupied with whatever it was it he was playing.</p><p>“You’re <em>allowed</em> to not like it.” As though that were some sort of <em>secret knowledge</em> that Rodimus was imparting to him. Of course he was <em>allowed</em> to dislike it. What an absolutely ridiculous thing to say.</p><p>“I don’t need your <em>permission</em>, Rodimus.”</p><p>“I mean generally.” The red speedster let out a low whistle, setting his game aside on the ground next to him. ”<em>Someone’s</em> tetchy this morning. Is it because I <em>accidentally</em> kicked you in the shin in the middle of the night again? I didn’t <em>mean</em> it.”</p><p>“I’m not—” No, no, Rodimus was right. “You’ve kept the nature of the trial a secret. It’s concerning.” </p><p>What if something went wrong? What if the premise if the task itself was dangerous? How could he prepare to keep Rodimus from ending on the local coroner's table to be picked apart? Megatron had already found this mech's mutilated corpse in a coffin once before. He had no interest in such a sight again.</p><p>"Yeah, well, don't worry about it, big guy," Rodimus said, shrugging a shoulder before snatching up one of the morsels that Megatron had turned down. The speedster popped it in his mouth, chewing loudly and with absolutely no grace whatsoever. Somehow that reminded the captain of eating with his fellow miners all those millions of years ago, all earnest enjoyment and no shame. An oddly comforting notion.</p><p>"Oh, yum, copper." Rodimus quickly stuffed another piece in his face with gusto.</p><p>Of course, <em>he</em> would like copper. The universe clearly thought itself so funny. Megatron tried to prevent his face from shifting into a grimace, but the distaste he held for the flavor was too strong.</p><p>"What?” The red speedster blinked at him in surprise. “You don't like copper?"</p><p>"Not in the least." The flavor still lingered mockingly on his tongue.</p><p>However, with a toothy grin, Rodimus slid a plate of what looked like some sort of pale aerogel squares with a white powder dusting across the low table towards his companion.</p><p>"Try that. It's tungsten alloy with calcium carbonate, I think."</p><p>Megatron’s fuel pump was still threatening him with seeing prior meals again, but with a sigh of trepidation, he grabbed one of the squares and took a cautious bite. </p><p>Crisp, crunchy, light. A pleasant texture. </p><p>The aerogel was still sour but not nearly as much as the copper filings. The flavor was milder and actually pleasant when balanced with the slight tartness of the calcium carbonate. This was fine. The calcium even seemed to help settle nausea. Hopefully Rodimus wouldn't be wanting any more of it….</p><p>Halfway through his second chunk of aerogel, Megatron realized he had become the victim of a distraction scheme. He set the remaining half of the square back on the plate before his attention could be pulled away again by a clever ploy.</p><p>"What <em>is</em> the trial, Rodimus?"</p><p>"Oh, you know, just… something cool. Don’t worry.” Rodimus waved a hand at him before taking the opportunity to stuff another piece of gelled energon in his mouth with all the dignity of the spunky street urchin he’d always been, Prime or not. “I'll handle it."</p><p>“But what <em>is</em> it you have to do?”</p><p>“Make a thing with a forge.” Rodimus was going to aggravate his healing wrist if he kept waving it dismissively like that. Sure, it was mostly healed, but it would be in the flamboyant mech’s best interests to not chance it. If he kept damaging the same area, Megatron would have to enlist Ratchet’s assistance in replacing the void-damned thing. The thought itself caused him disquiet. Unaware of his friend’s concerns, Rodimus continued, “Easy.”</p><p>“<em>Easy?</em>” The older captain leaned away from the table, taken aback. “Rodimus, have you ever actually done anything like that before?” Megatron knew the answer to that question, but that wouldn’t stop him from asking just to point out the obvious problem.</p><p>“Well, I saw it before and I’ve played some simulations. It looks pretty simple. Smack the literal slag out of hot metal until it’s the shape you want. <em>Bam!</em>” </p><p>“<em>That’s hardly—</em>” He was cut off by an emphatic golden hand pointing right at the red badge on Megatron’s chest.</p><p>“Even <em>you</em> could do it, Megs.” The red speedster threw back his head and laughed, as though his co-captain was worried over nothing. Rodimus picked up one of the brightly colored cups of fuel, this one green, from his side of the table and tossed it back with initial glee before scrunching up in face in regret. He shook his head in disgust after swallowing. “Ugh, nickel. Bitter.” </p><p>The now empty cup was smacked carelessly back down on the table, the entire surface shuddering and rattling the dishes.</p><p>“Besides, according to the Camiens, I should be a natural at it.” Rodimus pushed himself upright, mirroring Megatron’s posture by crossing his legs. He pointed one finger upwards as though to make a point, a cocky smirk making itself at home on his handsome—one day, Megatron told himself, he would stop this—alabaster facial plating. “Right? Right.”</p><p>“What about your arm?” It was Megatron’s turn to point, his left index finger extended out as he leaned across the table to indicate the poor abused arm Rodimus had been mistreating since he snapped it. All the hard work that was put into carefully soldering and patching the maltreated joint and the racer was so willing to waste it. </p><p>Didn’t he understand what it was like for Megatron to see him in pain? “How do you expect to swing a hammer without ripping your fuel lines open and cracking the plating again? <em>Hm?</em>”</p><p>Didn’t he understand how dangerous forging could be?</p><p>Rodimus shrugged again and lightly batted Megatron's pointing finger away.</p><p>"So what? It's not like you won't solder me back up." That was hardly the point.</p><p>“Even without a recent injury to complicate the matter, do you have any idea what you’re doing?”</p><p>Rodimus slapped his palms on the table, setting off another chorus of disturbed flatware.</p><p>“You don’t believe in me!” The easy smirk from before had morphed itself into an affronted scowl. “C’mon!”</p><p>The words seemed to have triggered some unexpected reaction. He hurt. That <em>hurt</em>. He didn’t recognize this pain. It was new, small, like an injury to a part of his frame he hadn’t known existed, hiding right in his spark somehow. It wasn’t strong, but the unfamiliarity of it was unnerving, like Megatron was out of his element, lost in some strange alien forest. It gave him pause as he sat there looking at Rodimus with wide optics, mouth agape. What <em>was</em> it? </p><p>“Of course, I—Rodimus. <em>Don’t be absurd.</em>” It didn’t matter. Rodimus was already rifling around in his subspace before pulling out the datapad that presumably contained the trial brief. He practically chucked it at Megatron, the datapad bouncing off his chest and landing in his lap.</p><p>“You want to read it? <em>Fine.</em> Here it is!”</p><p>For a moment, it looked as though Rodimus would storm off at any second to find a place to calm down. Instead, after several tense seconds of staring, the speedster opted to start stuffing in the rest of the gelled energon chunks, as though he could win whatever this was by grumpily eating at the object of his ire.</p><p>Megatron wasn’t sure what that was supposed to accomplish, but he felt… somehow comforted that Rodimus hadn’t left. Somehow this weird, childish pouting was… endearing. It made him want to reach out his hand and cautiously pat the brat on the shoulder, but that would be strange and part of him doubted that the petulant “god” would appreciate the contact just that moment. For now, he thought, perhaps it would be best if they both simply finished breakfast and Megatron could acquaint himself with the details of the trial that would begin that same evening.</p><p>Besides, whenever Rodimus got himself all riled up like this, he would generally forget about it within a few hours. A day at most.</p><p>At least those disgusting copper filing suspensions would would gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On the temple grounds was a large, fully-functioning replica of the foundry Solus Prime used to use back on Cybertron in the original Crystal City. The structure had supposedly been based on legends and tales since the original workshop itself had been lost to time. Still the Camiens believed that they had gotten suitably close when they built this one for ritual use. Or at least that was how it had been explained by a Torchbearer on the way there. Rodimus didn’t know enough to dispute it so he had just nodded along with the cursory explanation. </p><p>Sure. Whatever. </p><p>It was also a little hard to focus around the excitement that had been eagerly clutching at his attention all day, this morning’s brief argument with Megatron during breakfast all but entirely forgotten.</p><p>However, none of the explanations—the ones that <em>had</em> actually made it into his noggin anyway—had really prepared him for what actually seeing the replica structure would be like. The entrance into the foundry had been tall enough to admit even the largest crew members, luckily for the towering “consort-protector,” either because the Camiens had been prescient ages ago when they built the damn thing or because they had to move large items in and out. </p><p>Then again, “big” could also be “impressive”. The Prime surreptitiously sneaked a glance back over his shoulder at the <em>impressive</em> mech tailing him, a bit of a feat while walking forward and managing to not stumble over his own damn feet. The spin of his spark momentarily sped up. Weird. Maybe that was just the pre-show jitters. He turned his head back forwards before his processor was able to really register a distinct image.</p><p>Maybe the scale of the structure of the foundry had been meant to inspire awe. Whatever the reason, Rodimus felt dwarfed by the tunnel—and his company—lined on all sides with carved stones, the decorative patterns chiseled into them drawing on that same fire motif that covered most of the temple’s architecture. </p><p>This was <em>definitely</em> what he would call a <em>theme</em>. </p><p>There was no color to the stones here though, a stark contrast to the rest of Kremex and its debaucherous love affair with slathering structures in vibrant paint and gilding. Rodimus paused to reach out and touch one of the rocks making up the wall of the tunnel, causing Megatron, who had been following at a perhaps too close distance, to stumble. The larger mech let out a startled engine rumble as he caught himself on the tunnel wall with his arm. </p><p>The identically painted Torchbearers escorting them halted at once, like they were a single mechanism. Acting in unison like this was starting to creep Rodimus out if he was being honest. Could he order them to stop that? Was he allowed? If he was a god, he should have been able to do that. Regardless, he had a decidedly more immediate concern in the form of a co-captain he’d accidentally tripped. Never mind what level of authority a god could wield.</p><p>“Oops, sorry, buddy.” The Prime stretched up on the points of his feet to pat the arm braced on the wall overhead, unaware of how perilously close he could have come to potentially being squished on accident if Megatron hadn't caught himself.</p><p>Satisfied with his own apology, Rodimus turned away and pressed his palms to the engraved surface of the wall to take in the texture. Doing that to the walls elsewhere in the temple had resulted in paint flaking off that he had been quick to pretend had always been like that, but <em>this</em> seemed safe to touch. He didn't anticipate any admonishments about being careful with the architecture this time as he gingerly rubbed his hands across the surface.</p><p>No paint. Nothing. Not even a plain coating of primer or anything. </p><p>
  <em>Hm. </em>
</p><p>Maybe the air in the foundry would get too hot and crack whatever paint would normally have been applied. Or maybe they just got tired and decided it was done enough. <em>Or</em> this was considered more aesthetically pleasing somehow. Not his problem, but these stones were quite nice, downright pleasant to run his fingers over even.</p><p>It reminded him of something familiar though. Engravings not embellished with paint. Where had he seen that before?</p><p>Rodimus turned back to his companion to say he was ready to go, but stopped, confronted with the sight of plain, swirled engravings in the broad, heavy plate in front of him, right at eye-level. A mischievous little voice in the back of his head told him to touch the markings. Would they be similar in texture to the wall? Maybe he ought to, you know, for science….</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>His spark whirled around in circles again like someone had leaned on the gas pedal. Bizarre. He wasn’t sure he cared for that. Definitely wasn't <em>prepared</em> for that.</p><p>Rodimus yanked his optics upward to see an expression he could only interpret as Megatron being resigned, clearly tired with his mouth turned down like that. Sure, it was the evening, nearly bedtime, but Megatron almost always looked tired somehow. It was such a bummer. If only he could do something about it, Rodimus thought. He had thought buying more time with this adventure would help, but….</p><p>“Time to go make something awesome, yeah?” It wasn’t really a question, but a reassurance for himself as Rodimus put his hands on his hips to try and project confidence. That resignation hovering above him wasn’t exactly helping bolster his resolve though. The Prime puffed out a quiet “yeah” to answer his own rhetorical question.</p><p>Megatron only silently nodded in response, gesturing with one arm down the corridor to their destination. He was right, for once. They had places to be. </p><p>"It's going to be a real <em>prime</em> opportunity," Rodimus offered, an attempt to fill the silence and prompt a response in hopes of hearing a deep, familiar, comforting voice.</p><p>"What an <em>unfortunate</em> pun." Though, despite the words, a warm feeling of accomplishment bloomed in the red speedster’s chest at the sight of the corners of his co-captain’s mouth quirking up in a subtle smile.</p><p>Well, he <em>technically</em> got what he wanted.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>This time Prowl had made it. After committing the directions to the temple to memory the last time, he hadn’t needed to rely on his miscalculated understanding of the coordinate system here on Caminus. He also hadn’t needed to rely on twisting the arm of a less-than-trustworthy trouble-making mech to get here. </p><p>For Whirl’s begrudging cooperation last time, the commander had decided to put the charges for the obstruction of justice on the back-burner for now. Those could be used at any time to put the pressure on if he needed to. Hopefully. Assuming Whirl gave a damn, which he likely didn’t. No matter. Maybe he would just save the charges for a rainy day.</p><p>After making his way into the foundry with the crowd of gossiping, excited onlookers, Prowl located an out of the way corner in the back of the audience section, stuffing himself there. For tactical reasons, it was the best place to be away from whatever mayhem Rodimus could cause with that damn forge and keep an eye on the goings on without being impeded. </p><p>A few busybody locals had the audacity to cheerfully greet him as they passed by—while he was on duty no less—and ask him how he was doing. Prowl scowled and waved them away with an agitated hand and curt dismissals. He had no time for any of this. He wasn't on vacation. He wasn't here to make friends. He was here to prevent a criminal from escaping justice and inflicting further irreparable harm. What was the matter with these Camiens? He had no need of their constant, insistent hospitality. They were just getting in his way. Unbidden, his processor threw up a picture in his HUD of the quilted tarpaulin some stranger had kindly draped over him. Growling, Prowl shook his head to banish the thought.</p><p>With chairs placed for the bulk of the audience members, line of sight would most likely not become an issue as he intended to remain standing throughout the proceedings. Getting “comfortable” was a risk he couldn’t afford to take. However, with the heat and smoke wafting through the air, stinging the uncovered opening of his missing optic, "comfort" was the last thing on Prowl’s mind.</p><p>Unfortunately, the commander’s report to Optimus had gone <em>poorly</em>. At first the Prime didn’t seem to realize the seriousness of the situation, but after several hours of letting Prowl’s report percolate, it seemed that the tractor-trailer was beginning to come around. Optimus had called Prowl back during “appropriate business hours” in Iacon. That meant the middle of the night in Kremex, of course, but it wasn’t as though Prowl had been asleep.</p><p>Perhaps he would have had more evidence to provide Optimus if that aggravating minibot, Rewind, had simply agreed to supply him with the footage from the previous trial. Rewind had only told him to come back with a warrant. </p><p>“<em>Just in case, for <strong>your</strong> sake, Prowl, I’ve asked the Mistress of Flame to assign a minder to Megatron when he’s not with Rodimus. One of those… Torchers. You know, those guard units she has. Uh, Torchholders, I think they’re called,</em>” he had said. “<em>If he’s <strong>not</strong> up to anything, and I doubt he is, then he surely won’t mind the additional security measure.</em>” </p><p>Then he had reminded Prowl to keep him updated if there were any changes worth noting. The not-so-subtle admonishment of his suspicions did <em>not</em> go unnoticed. The words of his superior officer continued to play on repeat in his processor as he tucked himself further into his corner, back to the wall and arms crossed. He watched in silence as the crowd filed in and began to get settled.</p><p>The mastermind and his garish puppet would be here any minute for the performance of this complete and utter <em>farce</em>. Prowl could hardly believe he had to take the sequence of trials seriously. What was the point? There was no such thing as gods. No such thing as reincarnation. All of the things he had seen over the millions of years of his functioning taught him that only the foolish and desperate believe in anything beyond what can be proved. </p><p>However, religion was a <em>powerful</em> tool over such people. While Prowl doubted Megatron <em>believed</em> in any of this nonsense—he’d called religion the “engex of the masses” after all— he could imagine why the former despot could be drawn to using this charade to further his own nefarious ends.</p><p>At least one of the Torchbearers would be posted by Megatron throughout the duration of this trial. It wasn’t much, but the gesture meant that Optimus was thinking about the situation now. While one local, easily manipulated guard wouldn’t have been sufficient supervision, it was a start. </p><p>Let Rodimus play with his toys, play at being a god and put on a performance for this backwater corner of the universe. He would still need to talk to the more impressionable captain in private eventually, but there was no hurry on that front.</p><p>With his target guarded or not, Prowl would be keeping his own optic on the <em>genuine threat</em> tonight. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Chapter 28</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After a scant few steps to escape the tunnel, the captains of the <em>Lost Light</em> were in the foundry itself. Seating had been brought in and set aside near the entrance to the foundry. Most mechs who had arrived to watch were already in their places, eyes on the entourage, but mostly on the Prime himself. He knew that <em>he</em> was the star of the show and this foundry would be <em>his</em> stage. A quiet thought in the back of his processor, pulling from deep-seated insecurities, warned that he was merely the king of fools, a mockery to be consumed for entertainment. He shoved the concern down. It was wrong. Stupid. He was <em>beloved</em>, a literal object of <em>worship</em>. The gazes snapping to his every movement spurred Rodimus forward, the weight of the combined attention wrapping him in the warmth of the crowd’s reverent adoration. A few voices called out to him to ask for blessings or to bestow praises.</p><p>The workshop was a spacious stone structure, built slightly recessed into the ground though not nearly as deeply below street-level as Whetstone’s foundry had been. There was plenty of room for more than a hundred mechs to fit comfortably if spread out evenly throughout the room, but more than a few dozen seats had been set to the side at a safe distance from the equipment. This audience was smaller than the last time and fewer crew members had come for the show. Murmurs and chattering and shuffling feet reverberated off the walls and high, vaulted ceiling. </p><p>A breeze pulled the hot air and forge smoke up towards the flue cut into the peak of the roof while cooler air was drawn down through the tunnel. That much, at least, was familiar, reminding him of the cozy underground foundry he had visited with Drift a few days prior. The rest was unfamiliar, from the shifting crowd to the grandiose scale of the structure.</p><p>However, what struck Rodimus the most about the space was the sheer <em>emptiness</em> of it. There was hardly a stray item anywhere on the floor, the stones that made up the ground having been polished until they shone in the light from the forge’s embers and stray sunbeams from the flue up above. Supplies were neatly stacked or hung up in out of the way places on walls. Equipment like the forge and anvil were placed in the center of the room, as opposed to the back like in Whetstone’s workshop. It felt wrong somehow, sterile.</p><p>This time around, Rodimus felt less uneasy, less like his circuits were trying to fry themselves and leap out of his body. Well, less uneasy about the task. Turning to the gathered crowd as he was escorted by, he waved his arms enthusiastically, flashing what he thought were his biggest million-shanix smiles. He at least knew what the show going to be this time. He would smack some stuff together and make a whole spectacle of it. It would look cool, but he wasn’t sure how it was supposed to be a miracle to the audience. The brief didn’t say, but the brief also didn’t really acknowledge in any way that this was all just a publicity stunt. </p><p>Megatron hadn’t exactly approved of the list of requested materials that Rodimus had submitted to the temple staff for his project either. </p><p>“<em>What do you need <strong>several</strong> blanks of <strong>different</strong> alloys for? What are you intending to do with <strong>glass</strong>?</em>” </p><p>Rodimus had waved off his concerns at the time with some flippant response and a series of soft pats to the recently gentle giant’s warm and capable arm. That had seemed to kind of work for some reason, but he just chalked it up to the old bastard turning bright purple. Then again, he had been doing that an awful lot lately. Maybe that wasn’t good for his oil pressure. Should probably ask Ratchet about that later when the opportunity came up, he thought. Maybe it was a side-effect of getting a new body every midlife crisis.</p><p>Anyway, Megatron was just a worrywart who <em>also</em> had no experience with smithing, aside from knowing where ingots come from. The concern had been appreciated, of course, but it was totally unnecessary, in his opinion.</p><p>What did keep his circuits on the edge of shorting out was the patrol car lurking in the far corner of the foundry, behind the bulk of the audience that had been admitted for the event. Prowl made it this time and made no bones about making his presence known, giving an “I’m watching you” signal with two fingers at Rodimus and Megatron when he caught sight of them with the sextet of Torchbearers.</p><p>Just as Rodimus opened his mouth to tell Prowl <em>exactly</em> where he could stick those fingers, a Torchbearer gently steered him towards the center of the foundry where the high priestess awaited him.</p><p>The shadow that had been trailing him disappeared, slipping away as he approached their hostess. Of course, that was to be expected. Megatron couldn't assist him and strictly he wasn't part of the performance. Rodimus knew the Torchbearers would guide the grizzled grump away like last time but that didn't mean he had to like it. He looked back over his shoulder to at least know where his companion had gone, know that he was okay and not being hauled off in cuffs again. With Prowl lurking, there was always a chance, no matter how unlikely, that the commander could somehow abscond with an entire guy—</p><p>Oh. Found him, off to the side by the wall with a Torchbearer posted nearby. Why? The Torchbearers were technically meant to guard Rodimus and <em>Megatron</em>, of all mechs, didn’t need a guard-nanny. Also if he wanted to pull an Ultra Magnus and be pedantic about it, Megatron's job was to guard him and the Torchbearers' job was to... do something else but <em>not that</em>.</p><p>Not much the Prime could do but accept it for now. Strange but alright. It wasn't like Megatron could help him with the forge anyway short of maybe death-glaring the metal into shape.</p><p>Now that the audience was mostly settled, Rodimus found his eyes drawn again to the visiting commander. It appeared that Prowl had refused a chair, determined to stand and watch like the judgmental aft he was. Let him. And the Prime hoped the bastard’s legs went to sleep from standing too long. The Mistress of Flame conveniently cleared her throat when Rodimus stuck his tongue out at the unwanted visitor, a polite admonishment of his less-than-godly behavior.</p><p><em>Fine.</em> Whatever. Better things to do right now anyway than give an old cop the stink-eye. Besides, it looked like a friendly Camien was trying to offer the patrol car a folding chair and before promptly being told some unfortunate place to stuff said chair. Just what Prowl deserved.</p><p>A little red light from the back of the crowd caught Rodimus's eye. Rewind was present atop Chromedome's shoulder, of course. He recorded the last trial for posterity and presumably that was his current goal as well. A few other crew members were scattered about the crowd but the audience this time was far smaller. For space considerations, probably. Hopefully. Ideally they hadn't just decided he wasn't worth their time. Though there were some notable absences: Minimus (not even as Ultra Magnus), Drift…. Where were they? He forced himself to grin at those who had gathered just to see <em>him</em>, him and <em>him</em> alone.</p><p>The resident smith, who operated the forge and made both sacred and mundane objects for use at the temple, stood off to the side by the wall, a few paces away from Megatron. Rodimus could only suppose that the smith's work included the items he torched and melted into slag at the first trial. Hopefully, the smith, a stocky orange Camien with little obvious kibble incidentally and perhaps unfortunately named Flintstrike according to the introduction in the brief, was the particularly devout sort and wouldn’t hold much of a grudge. Hell, they ought to be on cloud nine that their work was used—and only a <em>little</em> destroyed—by an actual living, breathing Prime.</p><p>Sound had been playing in the background since before they had entered the foundry, but Rodimus hadn’t noticed it at first. Now without the shuffling of feet and rustle of plating as everyone became settled, he could tell that it was a wordless instrumental piece. It was probably being broadcast over speakers unseen in the walls. A little creepy actually, when he thought about it. The notes echoed softly off the bowed stone walls of the foundry. Some of it was familiar, he noticed after a few moments, but he still couldn’t place it. Maybe it was the tune to some of the hymns that he had heard in the temple or at the party on the road after the first trial. Whetstone worked in silence unless he had been tasked with making a sacred object, or so the smith had said. Maybe… Well, he supposed the trials constituted a “sacred” event, even if they <em>were</em> just for show. Hopefully, the sound wouldn’t start to grate on his audio processors before they were finished here.</p><p>Rodimus cast one last look back at the gathered crowd, all optics locked squarely on him. Well, almost all. Prowl's focus was visibly elsewhere, the commander's judgmental gaze zeroed in on the gray tank that had been on Rodimus' heels until just a few moments ago. Prowl seemed as though he might pop and pull his blaster if Megatron so much as twitched. Dude needed to chill.</p><p>The sound of something solid striking the ground caught his wandering attention. Startled, the red speedster whipped around to face the source of the noise.</p><p>Ah, just like last time. The Mistress of Flame was getting the spectacle underway. She certainly knew how to use that damn staff to get attention. No more waiting around, absorbing all the hype in the room. It was showtime.</p><p>“As we all know,” she began, raising her staff overhead, “our sparks were forged by Solus Prime herself and when we leave this world, she reforges us anew so that the cycle of life might continue.”</p><p>How… nice, but Rodimus couldn’t help thinking about <em>how</em> that was supposed to work if <em>he</em> was Solus and <em>here</em>, presently alive, and forging absolutely zero sparks in some other world or universe or wherever adherents to the Way of Flame imagined Solus’ non-literal forge to exist. Maybe he could ask later where that was supposed to be. There were probably some… theological implications here that he might want to get addressed. Hopefully, they didn’t expect him to single-handedly ignite some hotspots. The one hotspot on Luna 1 had just been a freak accident and those sparks had <em>already been</em> there according to the scans taken at the time. One of those sparks was even in the room right now, but that was a weird thought, and he didn’t want to think about it right now. Time traveling labor and delivery was not something he could process at the moment.</p><p>“Last we gathered, we saw Rodimus Prime perform the impossible, set <em>ablaze</em> the inflammable. Now we are here to see if he, like Solus Prime, can <em>create</em>!”</p><p>At least this time, he thought, her explanation was thankfully less long-winded but there was less to explain, really. He was here to hit stuff with a hammer and make it into a shape. Bing, bang, boom. Pretty straightforward. Besides, it was just a show. </p><p>A overly confident grin stretched across his face as he stood here next to the Mistress of Flame yet again, amid this dead, sterile work area. It was like he had been dropped into a sanitized museum exhibit as opposed to a place where someone actually went about their trade.</p><p>"Today he will create anew the <em>Star Saber</em>!"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Chapter 29</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In which Roddy does everything literally about as wrong as you can do it. This is the chapter with strong second-hand embarrassment.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rodimus could hardly hear his own thoughts over the roar of the crowd, their voices echoing off the walls and drowning out the allegedly "inspiring" hymn playing in the background. His spark was spinning itself dizzy in its chamber behind where the broken remains of the Matrix of Leadership were bolted into his chest. Luckily at the moment his own thoughts mostly consisted of incoherent excited screaming interspersed with forced words of encouragement he <em>needed</em> himself to believe. If anyone, even his most fervent devotees, was going to believe his performance, he needed to believe at least a little bit too.</p><p>This would be fine, Rodimus thought, approaching the table that had been set up next to the forge and anvil. A few sizes of hammer were laid out on the table, along with what looked to be tongs with heat guards on the grips. Convenient. He’d rather not burn himself, at least not unintentionally. Lighting himself on fire <em>on purpose</em> was a vastly different game. </p><p>A crate was set on the floor with the various materials he had requested meticulously stacked inside, as though they were afraid of offending him with anything less than tidy. <em>Perfect</em>, he thought at the sight of the supplies, leaning down to start digging around in the crate. <em>Clearly</em> they didn’t know him particularly well if they thought he was concerned about organization. Who did he look like? Ultra Magnus? It was funny given that he and Megatron had basically haunted the temple since arriving so the staff should really have known better by now. The only reason their habsuite was tidy and not littered with empty fuel cups and flatware was because his dear companion was philosophically opposed to tripping hazards.</p><p>It looked like he would have everything he needed to make his little project. There was even a protective apron and gloves of woven mesh and a heat shield mask, all of which he wriggled into before pulling anything else out of the box. He hated wearing masks, but maybe hot ingots with slag flying through the air and his face wouldn’t mix very well. Megatron could fix his wrist, but cosmetic surgery wasn’t exactly in the old mech’s toolbox, not that Rodimus thought he wouldn’t at least try or employ Ratchet’s assistance.</p><p>The sword was going to turn out perfectly. He knew someone who would just love it or who would at least appreciate it.</p><p>How long could this possibly take anyway? It was just a sword and according to the Camiens, he'd made it, or at least something very like it before. With different hands. In a different life. He also had a picture of the darned thing. If he just made it look like the picture pulled up in the corner of his HUD, the whole thing would be a snap. Smithing was going to be a cinch. If the myths were right, Rodimus could make this thing in his damn sleep.</p><p>But the Prime didn’t need <em>myths</em> to pull this off.</p><p>He had chutzpah and moxie.</p><p>With a smirk, he fished around inside the crate before pulling out two of the blade blanks, long pieces of steel and bronze respectively. The steel because sword and the bronze to make it a dope color, or so he thought. The other blanks were backup or in case he was randomly inspired in the course of hammering the slag out of the metal.</p><p>What could <em>possibly</em> go wrong? </p><p>Make them hot, smack them, add other stuff, heat, smack, repeat.</p><p>He stacked the blanks together on the table before grabbing a couple of clamps to keep the pieces together. Easy. This would totally work. The stack of blanks was picked up with the tongs and plopped right into the heated coals of the forge.</p><p>Great. Everything was getting underway, he thought.</p><p>Oh, it might need to be hotter in there. That would probably help.</p><p>Luckily there was a pedal in the floor for the built-in bellows. A few pumps of that and the coals were glowing brighter, smoke billowing out of the top of the forge.</p><p>Now to wait.</p><p>The bronze on top seemed to heat up more quickly, glowing long before the steel underneath even started to. He would need to wait though, or so he told himself. Right? They needed to be about the same amount of hot, right? It’s not like different alloys had different melting points or anything. That would be ridiculous. Whetstone had said it needed to be orange, but he had been only referring to one blank at the time.</p><p>
  <em>Hm. </em>
</p><p>Two blanks probably just took longer. No big deal. He had time. Unlike the old mech left by the wall, it wasn't Rodimus' bedtime.</p><p>Standing for a number of minutes, waiting for the metal to heat felt a little awkward, like it broke the pace of the performance while all optics were glued to his every twitch though. It was starting to kill his hype. Rodimus shifted his weight from foot to foot, rubbing his hands together while looking at the metal slowly heating on the coals. He could only hope this didn’t look… too boring or strange to the audience. Still, he reminded himself that the one person he <em>wanted</em> to see this amazing performance was definitely watching. The finished product was going to be worth the wait. </p><p>The bronze had left orange behind awhile ago and gone to yellow as the steel hardly glowed a dark red. As the metals glowed, the bronze seemed to be… starting to slide a little to the sides, flattening as though it was thinking of getting ready to ooze.</p><p>That was no good. </p><p>He better get to smacking.</p><p>Rodimus grabbed the tongs with his left hand and slapped the whole bundle onto the anvil to get to work. This would be fine. <em>Absolutely fine</em>.</p><p>He grabbed the medium-sized hammer off the worktable nearby with his right hand gave the hot stack of blanks a light, tentative test strike. The bronze oozed slightly, not unlike a firm gelatin or rubber, but the steel underneath remained firm, like it wasn’t hot enough. It hardly glowed at all so that didn't really come as much of a surprise. Better hit it harder. Show it who's boss.</p><p>Drawing and upsetting, that's what Whetstone had called this part, the twin basic processes of shaping the metals into the final product with carefully placed blows from the hammer. He could do that. That wouldn't be so bad. Tap, tap, tap, and it'd would be the right shape, right?</p><p>He struck a harder blow against the middle of the blanks, hoping to get a good feel for what he needed to do to make them look like the pattern file he had pulled up in the corner of his HUD. When the hammer contacted the bronze again with a dull <em>clang</em>, it further stretched to the sides, thinning out in the middle and beginning to bend down over the sides of the much firmer steel underneath.</p><p>Maybe this was good. The bronze was moving around so maybe he was doing something right. This was fine. This was totally fine. This was 500% fine. He definitely had this. Maybe he should go with the flow of what the bronze wanted to do. Wrap it around the steel like a cozy blanket. That’d work. </p><p>Using the tongs he rotated the stack of blanks and smacked the bronze into what he hoped was the right shape. This wasn’t quite like those simulations he’d played, but he could adjust. Just had to adjust. The  music playing in the background didn’t help matters, but it would be alright, he told himself. It would be alright.</p><p>With every strike of the hammer, the steel underneath didn’t respond with more than an indignant <em>thud</em> while the bronze stretched and warped. </p><p>The glow was dying, which meant the metal was cooling back down and would less amenable to conform to his will. He’d need to reheat it.</p><p>The blanks went back into the forge to reheat and Rodimus took a moment for a few deep ventilations. Don’t look at the audience, he told himself as coolant started to bead up on the surface of his armor, can’t let them throw off the groove. This was going great. It was just going to take some time and determination. It’d be fine.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>After about thirty minutes of reheating the metal several times, beating it senseless, and tweaking his wrist, Rodimus was beginning to think this wasn’t working. He had managed to narrowly avoid getting splattered with molten bronze—thanks to the protective gear—after finally getting the steel to become pliable. Unfortunately, he’d also somehow managed to fold the whole pile of blanks into a sandwich of metal that no longer in any way resembled a sword blade. </p><p>Maybe, he thought, just maybe, he should have practiced a little with Whetstone while he had been in the foundry. That probably would have helped, yeah. Oh well, he’d just have to keep pressing on. Maybe now that the blanks had formed this weird folded up monstrosity, he could just <em>squish it flat</em> again. Only the steel was left after all, with all the bronze melted into the forge or splattered across the anvil, hammer, and floor. </p><p>Striking the steel again, Rodimus noticed how tired his arm and shoulder were getting. He had built up heat in his body from the forge, from the metal, and from the exertion. His cooling fans were roaring and liquid coolant that had been collecting on his plating in a desperate attempt to regulate his internal temperature started to flow downward in rivulets. </p><p>This blacksmithing stuff was no joke. It was hard work. Damn. Who would have guessed?</p><p>The steel hardly deformed under his blows. He couldn’t put in the same energy anymore that he had when he started. It just wasn’t there, but he couldn’t give up. He just… just had to press forward. Maybe he could get partial credit for just making something cool even if it wasn’t the “Star Saber” exactly.</p><p>Yeah. That would work.</p><p>He set the hammer aside and reached down into the box, pulling out a fist-sized hunk of glass and slapped it on top of the glowing hot steel before the whole mass went back into the fire.</p><p>As soon as the glass hit the coals, he heard what sounded like Swerve gasping in horror from the audience. Maybe Swerve was just overwhelmed with how amazingly Rodimus was doing, despite his miraculously limited knowledge of metallurgy. A bit of a feat for someone made out of metals.</p><p>Whetstone had mentioned something about smiths often installing a software suite and optical enhancements to assist with forging, mostly to monitor temperature in real-time beyond simply guessing based on color. Rodimus was regretting not having it now as the glass began to liquefy and ooze into the forge. </p><p>Okay, so maybe Megatron had been right that glass would be <em>finicky</em>. Okay, so he hadn’t called it “finicky.” He’d called it “inappropriate,” but this wasn’t <em>his</em> show so it didn’t matter.</p><p>Then again, there was also a chance the software suite wouldn’t have helped. Sure, he could have checked the temperatures of the materials at a glance, but hell if he knew what he needed them to be at other than “hot” and probably glowing orange. The glass was definitely hot. And glowing orange. Lifting the massacred mess of blanks from the fire with the tongs flung thick droplets of molten glass off the surface to anything unfortunate enough to be caught underneath in the path from the forge to the anvil. Rodimus would definitely categorize glass dripping everywhere as "hot."</p><p>Ah, to hell with it. His plans would just have to change.</p><p>Rodimus threw down the hammer, ignoring the loud clank it made when it collided with the ground. The glove on that hand had become slick inside with gathered coolant, slipping off when the hammer was thrown.</p><p>Dammit. Oh well.</p><p>He grabbed the literal hot mess he had created with his newly bared, free hand, yanking it clear of the tongs with no regard for the burn in his palm. Gritting his teeth, he chucked it into the vat of oil waiting nearby. </p><p>The jagged bundle of dripping glass and warped, glowing metal disappeared below the surface of the quenching oil with a loud hiss of steam, oil splashing out of the container and splattering to the floor where it joined dust, discarded lumps of slag, and cooled splotches of bronze.</p><p>Well, that could have absolutely gone better.</p><p>Rodimus slowly turned to face the audience, an awkward grin plastered across his face as he pushed the mask up away from his face. Flintstrike, the resident smith, looked like he had melted, collapsed against the wall with a look of abject terror grotesquely stretched across his face. In a desperate bid to avoid catching the optics of any random mech who might look at him with judgment—or worse, the Mistress of Flame, he snapped his gaze to a familiar scarlet glow by the wall. He stretched the grin and gave his gaping co-captain a tentative thumbs up, the protective shield on his forehead wobbling precariously. Coolant dripped down his cheeks from where it had collected behind the shield.</p><p>This was fine. Totally fine. Excellent work.</p><p>That guy would just... get a <em>different</em> present.</p><p>This was all according to plan. Yep. Totally.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter caused my spouse to have a visceral reaction of horror when they were betaing.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Chapter 30</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This wasn’t going anywhere.</p><p>It just <em>wasn’t</em> coming together the way she wanted. </p><p>Solus had been at this for hours, bickering with her dumb forge. The stupid sword wasn’t matching the design she had charted out on her lathe, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. She had chosen the materials and had laid out the blueprint, but the shape just wasn’t taking and the properties of the prototypes she'd sketched out just weren’t lining up. The titanium wasn’t cooperating with her and didn’t want to get hot enough. The forge just wasn’t putting out enough heat to get the titanium ingot to a workable temperature.</p><p>She couldn’t give him something like this! A slightly squished ingot of titanium? What was Megatronus supposed to even <em>do</em> with that? <em>Bludgeon</em> someone with it? She might as well give him any old rock. If she were going to do that, Solus liked to think she would have at least selected a cool rock, like a quartz crystal or <em>something</em>.</p><p>If she failed, not only would she have nothing worthwhile to give him, but there would be a significant chance he wouldn’t come back <em>at all</em>. If he ended up a lifeless wreck on some distant world, Solus didn’t know what she would do, short of trekking out there to haul back what was left of him. While she didn’t doubt Megatronus’ skill in battle—he had clearly gotten <em>this</em> far without dying—she had to be <em>sure</em>. She couldn’t take any chances. He was going to come back in one piece, dammit.</p><p>Solus stamped mercilessly on the bellows pedal to flood the forge with fresh oxygen. It needed to be <em>hotter</em>. The thin layer of coals lining the forge glowed pitifully. </p><p>All she was getting from pumping the bellows was more acrid smoke in the face as black tendrils billowed out of the forge towards the flue above. She offlined her optics for a moment, an attempt to protect the delicate components behind the optical glass from the smoke that crawled around her facial shield.</p><p>Megatronus would be going to Antilla with his mentor Onyx and a few of the other tribal leaders. Onyx had said it was to bring enlightenment to the Antillans and Prima had said it would be a benevolent mission, but Solus doubted it. It just seemed like an unnecessary expansion campaign that would only bring death and suffering. Megatronus seemed to share her misgivings about this “peaceful diplomatic mission.” </p><p>Yet he was to go anyway.</p><p>Pax Cybertronia required martial prowess and who else could be called upon to lead the way? She wouldn’t let him go unprepared. </p><p>She <em>needed</em> him to be safe.</p><p>She needed him to <em>come home</em>.</p><p><em>She</em> needed <em>him</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Wait.</em>
</p><p>Oh hell, she’d forgotten to put more fuel into the forge. <em>Of course</em> it wouldn’t burn hot enough without anything to <em>generate the heat</em>. The damn thing was practically running on fumes. She’d been so worried that something so <em>basic</em> had completely slipped her mind. She could have slapped herself in the forehead were it not for the face shield.</p><p>Several minutes later with the metal finally glowing yellow-orange, hot enough to work, Solus began to shape the ingot. Slowly but surely, in line with the pattern in the corner of her HUD imported from her creation lathe, she drew out the metal into shape with carefully modulated strikes, slag flying away as it was beat from the material. After pounding small dents into the metal with the back of the hammer, she flipped the tool around to flatten the ingot with the tool’s face, leaving the impression of a wave shape in the metal.</p><p>Soon, she thought, it would be a blade. Soon. <em>Soon</em>.</p><p>It had to be <em>perfect</em>.</p><p>It needed <em>more</em>.</p><p>After about an hour, reheating the titanium as needed, the basic shape was in place. She plunged the glowing metal into the vat of quenching oil only an arm’s reach away, ignoring the familiar hiss signaling a job well done. Her square shoulders dropped, exhausted from the day’s labor. The heat shield in front of her eyes was pushed up to expose her angular, alabaster face, from which Solus wiped coolant with the back of her heavy mesh glove.</p><p>Pulling off her protective gloves and throwing them aside, she heaved a tired sigh. The gloves landed somewhere on the floor, sure to be lost in the chaos of items that had been collected around the workshop. Luckily she always had more gloves around, just in case. There was a chance that wherever she looked, she would find at least one.</p><p>Alloys needed to be plated onto the blade to give it the necessary edge and strength. The guard had to be shaped and attached, welded on. The grip had to be wrapped in a heavy mesh and glued in place with a strong adhesive.</p><p>The sword was pulled from its oil bath after having a chance to cool down and harden. Oxidized oil and its coagulated sludge dripped down her golden arm from the blade and splashed to the already filthy floor when she shook off the excess.</p><p>Solus held the finished base sword up, wiping off the lingering oil with a mesh cloth. The blade still needed to be polished and sharpened, but even now the faces of the metal caught the orange light from the forge. Resplendent.</p><p>Still… something was missing. It needed something else, something she hadn’t included in her designs on the lathe.</p><p>Solus frowned at the blade, turning it this way and that with her sooty, brass-colored hands to try and reveal the problem. </p><p>
  <em>Wait.</em>
</p><p>Her crimson optics went wide, brightening as an idea bloomed in her processor, hissing through her circuits like a lit fuse.</p><p>Solus tossed the sword to the workbench before yanking off her protective apron, casually discarding it on the floor. She had just the thing it would need. No need to even make a brand-new guard. She already had the perfect solution and she’d just been carrying it around in her chest the entire time.</p><p>Cracking open her lightly-armored hood, she reached in, rifling around to find the magnetic releases and port plugs holding in place that matrix she’d made months prior. That project had been a bit of a failure. When she tried to installing it in other mechs—volunteers, of course—they only experienced pain and warped ghostly messages, distorted artifacts from corrupted files they couldn't correctly access. </p><p>The stupid thing only seemed to work properly for her, so it didn’t really do what she had ultimately hoped for. The convenient, extra sturdy storage aspect was the only part that had turned out well. For months, she’d just been using it to store notes and random thoughts. Extra space was all it was really good for. That was very <em>technically</em> fine, but it was rather a waste of all that hard work.</p><p>Now though, Solus knew she had a <em>much</em> better use for the damn thing.</p><p>She yanked the data matrix free before letting it clatter to the table alongside the unfinished sword.</p><p>Following a manic flurry of rearranging protective gear, slapping plating back into place, and unleashing absolute creative fury upon the pedal for the bellows, Solus put the tongs and hammer back to work. Pliers pulled the handles of the matrix open. The cracked-open contraption was then forcefully slid onto the bare metal tang to where it would form the guard. A silica-based flux was applied before the matrix was welded into place.</p><p>
  <em>Perfect.</em>
</p><p>This stupid matrix would serve a much better purpose, protecting Megatronus in battle as opposed to simply being a handy-dandy notepad, kept warm inside her frame. Furthermore, she thought, since it contained many of her notes and idle musings, it would be as though she would be there on the field with him. He would carrying a part of her throughout this foolish campaign that Onyx Prime was dragging him on. The romantic brute would probably love that.</p><p>Satisfied for now, although there was still much work to be done on the blade, she sighed and smiled down at the framed, glowing blue sphere that now formed the front of the hilt.</p><p>Solus could only hope he would understand the purpose of the gift. It wasn’t only to protect him, to keep foes at bay; it had a symbolic purpose, something she’d thought about for <em>years</em>. Then again, sometimes he could be so incredibly thick-headed that it was likely she would have to spell it out for him.</p><p>The Act of Profferance.</p><p>She’d already confessed to him her mistakes in life. They’d been physically close for <em>centuries</em>, sharing warm, intimate moments in the privacy of the dark. Or the workbench when she had bothered to clear a path from the door through the floor junk. She really should clean the floor more often, Solus thought.</p><p>Only a few steps remained. A symbolic step, of course. Everyone already knew. Still there was <em>something</em> about making it official that appealed to her. They had been <em>practically</em> conjunxed for ages now, but she wanted there to be no doubt, no room for error.</p><p>Solus would present him with this sword… and ask him to come home safe.</p><p>No sword could be unbeatable nor could any weapon protect Megatronus from <em>every</em> possible threat, but perhaps her love could. It would have to.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I said updated on Wednesday, but I got antsy while blocking out the next arc.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Chapter 31</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter contains mild gore.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What Megatron wouldn’t have given to have someone familiar nearby to ease his concerns about this event. Knowing what his co-captain was going to be expected to do had somehow made the tension that had taken up residency in his nerves worse. He had spent the entire day keeping an eye on an <em>unusually calm</em> Rodimus, a stark contrast to the unwanted hypothetical disaster scenarios, ranging from mild injuries to statistically improbable freak accidents, that had been playing unendingly in the old warrior’s processor. The thought of anything going wrong made the very fuel in his lines threaten to cease their life-giving flow and crystallize in place.</p><p>It was all the worse because he knew there was practically no chance that the outcome tonight would be <em>good</em>. Rodimus had never done <em>anything</em> like this before to Megatron's knowledge. Blacksmithing was an artisan trade, requiring extensive training and experience. Furthermore, it was <em>dangerous</em>.</p><p>Unfortunately, Minimus had decided to make himself scarce for this event, particularly since it was known that Prowl would be present. After that last run-in they had had with the commander outside of the small foundry in one of Kremex’s market districts, Megatron fully supported Minimus’ decision to be <em>conveniently</em> elsewhere. Even in the Magnus armor, he would have been subject to Prowl’s unnecessary scrutiny, perhaps even more so. Ultra Magnus had not made many appearances in Kremex once it became clear that the armor would generally be a hindrance to mobility. This wouldn't have gone unnoticed by their keen-eyed investigator.</p><p>For now, standing along the wall of the foundry, flanked on either side by a Torchbearer and the smith who generally operated this forge, Megatron had more immediate concerns.</p><p>The aging captain could hardly believe his optics. From the moment the Mistress of Flame announced what would be made, Megatron <em>knew</em> this would go badly. After Rodimus had started pulling items from that supply crate by his worktable, he had felt nothing but building anxiety slowly threaten to choke his processor with an unregulated charge of electricity. The fool had absolutely <em>no</em> idea what he was doing up there. He was going to get <em>hurt</em>. While Rodimus had seemingly managed to put on the provided protective gear, somehow that did nothing for the horrible sense of impending disaster shooting through his circuits and lines. Every passing moment that he hadn’t been knocked offline by some power surge from the stress was a surprise. His hands clenched into fists and unclenched over and over. </p><p>The <em>Star Saber</em>?</p><p>Seriously?</p><p>What had Rodimus been thinking? Had he even <em>been thinking</em> at all? It scarcely seemed like it.</p><p>He could have chosen to make <em>anything</em>! Maybe even a bolt. It didn’t matter. Sure, it wouldn’t be remotely impressive but it would have been far easier than attempting to remake a <em>legendary sword</em> that had probably never even existed in the first place. With a bolt, at least there was a specific hole in the anvil to help shape the damn thing.</p><p>Megatron raised his palms to his face and dragged them down, ultimately covering his mouth. It was hard to tear his gaze away from the absolute train-wreck in front of him as the smaller captain massacred the blade blanks and committed crimes against metallurgy. Distantly Swerve and the resident smith, Flintstrike—if he remembered correctly—could be heard having fits of some kind, especially once the glass was added. </p><p>Members of the audience mumbled and murmured. With smithing being a sacred profession on Caminus, even laypeople likely knew at least enough to know this was an absolute <em>disaster</em>. For a supposed reincarnation of a god known for their smithing ability and being supposedly responsible for the forging of Camien sparks, Rodimus was certainly <em>not</em> living up to his inherited reputation of artisanal craft mastery from Solus Prime.</p><p>What purpose could such a replica even serve? Rodimus knew his way around a dagger but swordplay was a different skill. Not all combat skills with a dagger would necessarily scale up. Besides, in a time of peace, why would he even <em>need</em> it?</p><p>And all while Rodimus toiled at the forge with a hammer, pushing himself too far and braving at the unknown, Megatron could do nothing. He was helpless to do anything. A Torchbearer, taller and broader than the average Camien, stationed at his side rumbled whenever he so much as seemed to <em>think</em> about stepping forward. Prowl’s optics was locked in on his every twitch. While he doubted he could <em>physically</em> stopped, the worst he could do would likely be breaking the forge itself. Just like the last trial, <em>nothing</em> he could possibly do would solve the problem.</p><p>It wasn’t <em>his</em> problem to solve and <em>logically</em> he <em>knew</em> that.</p><p>That didn’t stop the endless thought-loop in his processor from screaming or the wild spin of his spark that desperately wanted to convince him that <em>he</em> needed to <em>do something</em>.</p><p>The whispers of the audience went silent and even the hymn playing through hidden speakers died abruptly at the splash of oil. When the mangled creation was thrown into the quenching vat, Megatron know that his co-captain had given up. That just wasn’t <em>like</em> him but perhaps he had a plan. Not likely, but perhaps.</p><p>There were backup blanks into the crate if everything that had been on the supply list was, in fact, provided. </p><p>He could start again. </p><p>Rodimus could start over. There was time. He could still pull <em>something</em> off. That firebrand was <em>always</em> doing the impossible. There was still a chance, even if logic denied it, even if—</p><p>But when the speedster pushed up his mask and turned to look at Megatron with an uncertain grin and a thumbs up, he knew… he knew that that Rodimus had decided enough was enough with this foolish trial.</p><p>Maybe, he thought, just maybe, failing would mean this nonsense could end. That they could put this behind them and get back on track for their obligations, get back to… He’d say life, but it would only be life for one of them. That was how it had to be. Maybe this was a <em>good</em> thing. Rodimus could stop playing pretend and acting like a new-build that didn't want to recharge at the right time.</p><p>The Mistress of Flame motioned with her free hand for a Torchbearer to come forward, a smaller-framed one with stubby wings. The color scheme for this particular unit of Torchbearers was oddly appropriate for the occasion, orange and yellow like a flame. The chosen small mech cautiously, but obediently, approached the vat of oil next to Rodimus, who still stood there, wobbling and coated in coolant and soot from the smoke. </p><p>Without direct exposure to flame to burn off the moisture from the coolant, the slender speedster looked rather like a drowned cyber-rat, though this time without an overly helpful Torchbearer and a bucket of water to thank for it. At least he wasn’t letting off steam again. Rodimus leaned against the worktable with his arm, ventilating hard to assist the cooling fans that must been spinning themselves mad. </p><p>Megatron stepped forward, his left hand on his kit out of habit. While he knew his co-captain was generally resistant to heat, that didn’t mean he didn’t need medical assistance. Just in case. There was always a chance, especially with that cheap, inefficient thermal paste he used between his components. He had told Rodimus a thousand times he needed to use proper, long-use thermal paste <em>and</em> have it applied by a medical professional. He also needed to stop replacing some structural components with flammable plastic to enhance his speed. Maybe grabbing the mass of hot blanks with a bare hand had caused some damage or who knows what else could possibly have gone wrong in that careless firebrand’s frame. Megatron just… just needed to <em>check</em> to make sure.</p><p>The Torchbearer at his side stuck out an arm in his path. When Megatron moved to go around, the extended hand firmly grabbed his wrist, a reminder to stay back.</p><p>“Unhand me!” he snapped, slapping the offending hand away while yanking his own wrist free. “I am a <em>physician</em>!”</p><p>“A physician with an illegal arm-mounted cannon?” Prowl shouted from the back of the audience, drawing the optics of the crowd.</p><p>“<em>Medical kit</em>,” the captain bellowed back, already stomping towards the forge with his appointed Torchbearer hanging back by the wall.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Rodimus felt himself sway after leaning on the table. The roar of his cooling fans and the rush of fluids in his lines drowned out what seemed to be shouting not terribly far away. Huh. Wonder what that was about. Hopefully an argument about how cool he was. Unlikely, given the unholy mess he’d just dunked in the oil, but he could dream.</p><p>Hot. Too hot.</p><p>That fatigued feeling in the hydraulics of his arms and shoulders throbbed with regret. Definitely not used to this type of labor. Combat required different types of motion, not quite this repetitive.</p><p>When he lit himself on fire, the coolant at least evaporated on contact, taking some of the excess heat away from his body. With this unbreathable protective gear and lack of direct flame contact, all that heat and coolant was trapped close to his plating, unable to dissipate. The speedster had been in higher temperatures before, but not quite like this, not quite so humid and damp. Is this what it felt like to live in a swamp? At least Ratchet had removed the last of the plastic he'd used to boost his race times. Didn't need melting, sticky goo everywhere.</p><p>The floor under his feet shook as heavy steps approached. He was vaguely aware that the winged Torchbearer the Mistress of Flame had called forward had frozen in place near the vat of oil, but his attention was drawn away by large hands detaching the face shield from his head. The shield fell to the floor with a <em>clank</em> as a rush of relatively cooler air collided with his facial plating. Those hands then pulled off and discarded the remaining glove before roughly wriggling the heavy, humid mesh apron free.</p><p>“Fluff your plating,” a familiar voice commanded. Not normally one to obey, Rodimus complied, if only because now without the apron compressing his armor, he actually could. Also maybe a little because some strange part of his processor wanted <em>that</em> voice to be happy with him. Plating clicked and pinged as it moved, scalding air racing free as cooler air surged in to replace it. It wasn’t that different in temperature given the heat put off by the forge but it was cooler enough for him to relish it.</p><p>“Babe, I’m fine,” he mumbled, flippantly waving the hand he wasn’t leaning his weight on at the mountain of a mech in front of him. “Chill, I’m just too warm. It’s fine. I’m cool, it’s fine.”</p><p>Really, it was no big deal. He wasn’t <em>dying</em>. He’d cool down, especially now that he wasn’t covered in sweaty mesh. It was just a shame the soot coating had also absorbed the coolant in places, forming a grimy paste that didn’t want to evaporate. It would have to get washed off later with solvent and surfactant. </p><p>Maybe he could get those hands to help some more. Yeah. That’d be nice. It’s not like his co-captain hadn’t helped him get clean before, though the last time Rodimus had had way too much high-grade than he ought to have had, so that was a special situation.</p><p>Still, he relaxed as excess energy dissipated from his circuits, a stupid grin spreading across his face as a grizzled tank methodically inspected him, presumably for any obvious damage.</p><p>The sound of his cooling fans gradually wound down as his temperature slowly, slowly dropped, but another noise caught his attention.</p><p>
  <em>Splash!</em>
</p><p>Rodimus leaned around Megatron to see, grabbing a big, gray arm to stabilize himself on his still unsteady feet.</p><p>The winged Torchbearer’s optics were stretched wide, having plunged their arm into the vat of cold quenching oil.</p><p>Hardly a moment after reaching into the liquid, the Torchbearer let out a high-pitched shriek and recoiled, yanking their arm back with a spray of oxidized hydrocarbons, sticky purple energon trickling out of their finger down their palm of the hand and blending with the blackened oil.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Chapter 32</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Still a bit of gore in this chapter. And some nongraphic spider-like legs.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That… didn’t seem right. </p><p>The last Prowl knew, Megatron had <em>no</em> medical knowledge whatsoever and here the egotistical bastard was calling himself a <em>physician</em> and claiming that the duplicate of his old fusion cannon mounted on his arm was a <em>medical kit</em>.</p><p><em>Please</em>, like <em>anyone</em> would believe <em>that</em>.</p><p>Prowl wasn’t built yesterday.</p><p>When they’d forced him to melt down the first one, part of the agreement was that he would never be permitted to rearm himself with another one. This condition had already been broken at least once, documented in a report on the events of that strange hollow planet the <em>Lost Light</em> had paid a few visits to. Not that Prowl believed the bulk of that report. It was nonsense. </p><p>Most of what supposedly occurred on or around the <em>Lost Light</em>, according to official reports submitted by Ultra Magnus on behalf of Megatron and Rodimus to Autobot High Command, was absolute nonsense and hardly more than fanciful fairytales. That new planet of Cybertronians? That was real. Luna 1? Real. The rest of it? <em>Bovoid slag</em>. He could come up with sensible explanations when he had time.</p><p>The commander pushed his way to the front of the audience after Megatron ditched his Torchbearer guard, making his way through and around the mechs who had opted to stand off to the side, rather than upset the rows of chairs with afts in them. So much for the Torchbearer keeping an eye on him. Prowl really <em>did</em> have to do everything himself around here.</p><p>
  <em>Physician.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ridiculous.</em>
</p><p>As though the old slagmaker-turned-"pacifist" responsible for billions and billions of deaths and rendering countless planets sterile could ever be capable of healing and preserving life.</p><p>“This trial is a <em>joke</em>!” he barked, ignoring the priestess blathering something about “don’t interfere” and “sacred proceedings.” To hell with all of that. He was on duty and he wasn’t going to let some game of “make believe” get in his way. Besides, he'd just watched Rodimus <em>pantomime</em> a new-build's understanding of blacksmithing. For the past half an hour or so. What an absolute <em>waste of time</em>.</p><p>Approaching the forge, the patrol car sidled up to the winged Torchbearer that had just pulled their arm free of the quenching oil, liquid and black sludge dripping down their plating. The sour, out-of-place smell of spilled energon caught him by the olfactory sensor. Idiot must have cut themselves on a shard of metal in the oil.</p><p>With the Torchbearer too preoccupied with their <em>minor</em> injury to interfere, Prowl took the opportunity to knock them aside with his shoulder and shove his own hand into the vat. Cold oil sloshed over the sides of the vat and up his arm, seeping into the seams of his armor plating.</p><p>He could end this entire farce <em>right now</em>. He could prove there was no point to any of these trials by showing that there was no miracle, that Rodimus was simply an arrogant showoff with nothing of substance to back it up. All he had to do was show all of them the proof, the useless garbage that the idiot had haphazardly mashed together, a mockery of the work done by skilled artisans.</p><p>Sure, Rodimus would be a laughing stock. Sure, Rodimus would resent him for ruining whatever his stupid plan was. What else was new on either of those fronts? Prowl would have preferred to end things on a more amicable note, but he knew that in the long run, Rodimus would appreciate this. He would appreciate being freed from being a pawn in whatever sinister game Megatron was playing with him. He would appreciate that Prowl was acting in everyone's best interests against an incorrigible threat.</p><p>It would be over and everything could get back on track. Megatron would be tried and executed by the Galactic Council. The <em>Lost Light</em> could be decommissioned for research purposes. Every misfit that wasted time on that pointless quest could get back to living productive lives. Prowl would finally—</p><p>He screamed, the sound echoing off the bowed walls of the foundry.</p><p>Something sharp had sunk into the sensitive mesh on his palm and fingers, hooking in deep.</p><p>Gritting his jaw closed, he clamped his hand down around whatever had decided to take a bite. The texture under his fingers was smooth and round, not at all like the monstrosity that Rodimus had tossed in. Sharp talons or something with a similar hooked shape held fast to his hand, fuel bleeding into quenching fluid, lines stinging at the contact with oil not first filtered through his systems. What was this damned thing? Had they hidden some sort of trap in here?</p><p>With a spray of oil and sludge, he raised his arm from the oil, hoisting whatever had bitten him high overhead.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Rodimus turned off his optics for a second at the scene, onlining them again in hopes of feeling less confused. When did Prowl get up here? Why was he digging around in the quenching oil?</p><p>The Mistress of Flame was yelling something at the nosy busybody. The winged Torchbearer stood near Prowl, holding their hand like it had been injured.</p><p>Prowl’s sudden shriek jarred Rodimus back into full awareness. He struggled to escape Megatron’s grasp, whom he hadn’t even realized had still been checking him over. With sufficient squirming, probably combined with the start from Prowl’s scream, the Prime freed himself and made for the vat.</p><p>Before he could close the distance, Prowl had yanked <em>something</em>, something that was <em>moving</em>, from the depths of the oil. Rodimus was unable to dodge the splatter of the fluid hydrocarbons, but being clean, even with his plating still fluffed up to allow for better air circulation, was the least of his worries at the moment. His optics followed the motion of Prowl’s arm high into the air.</p><p>“Rodimus, get back!” </p><p>
  <em>Hell no.</em>
</p><p>While he generally liked to make the owner of that deep voice happy, not this time.</p><p>Something that looked not unlike half of a sphere glinted in Prowl’s grasp, shining in the oil. It was smooth, but needed polishing. Transparent blotches of glass dotted its steel body, glowing blue off and on. Tiny, skittering spider-like metal legs twitched in the air was it struggled for purchase. It had hooked itself into the patrol car’s hand with what looked to be small, blue, blade-like fangs.</p><p><em>Oh Primus,</em> they’d given him some dormant, inorganic life form and called it a blade blank.  And he’d accidentally woken it up like all those sparks that had been chilling on Luna 1. That had to be it. Why would they do that? Who would do that? That was awful. The darn thing didn't ask to be woken up and beaten into new, fantastic shapes.</p><p><em>Oh no.</em> He’d beat the scrap out of an innocent mechanimal with a hammer for no good reason like an absolute <em>bastard</em>. The poor thing. That was a shitty way to be woken up from whatever weird hibernation it must have been in, he thought, not caring that it hadn’t looked at all like this new shape before he’d carelessly and cruelly thrown it into the oil.</p><p>“Prowl, put it down!” Rodimus held out his arms, tired as they were, in an offer to take the poor critter, for both of their sakes. The creature would be safe and Prowl wouldn’t get himself bitten again.</p><p>The commander stared up at the creature with visible, <em>visceral</em> disgust before he wrenched it from his palm with his free hand and then tossing it at Rodimus’ chest-plate.</p><p>“What in the hell <em>is</em> that <em>thing</em>?” Prowl spat, protectively holding his bleeding, injured hand close to his chest.</p><p>Rodimus shrugged, looking down in curiosity at the weird little thing. It was big enough that he needed both hands to hold it on either side. The moment it collided with the Prime’s plating, it pulled its legs and fangs back inside its round body, leaving the underside perfectly flat. Oil dripped off the smooth surface of the creature, whereas some oxidized sludge still adhered in lumpy splotches. Little buddy needed a bath.</p><p>The blue lights scattered along the top continued to blink on and off. Were those its optics? Could it see? Could it hear? Whatever it was, it was warm to the touch. Swirls and swooshes of what looked like lingering bronze were embedded in the steel in a few spots.</p><p>“Uh, I don’t really know.” A very true statement. He had no idea what he was even looking at, having never run across anything like it before. It was oddly cute though, in an eldritch sort of way. “Star Saber, I guess.”</p><p>Whispers were heard again from the audience, reminding Rodimus that they were there, bearing witness to all of this… whatever <em>this</em> was.</p><p>
  <em>Wait.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aha!</em>
</p><p>Clutching “Star Saber” to his chest with one arm, Rodimus turned back towards the crowd. With a wobble, he scurried over to where a bewildered Megatron stood by the worktable and hauled himself up the giant to sit on his shoulder, using the gray mech’s knee- and hip-guards as footholds. </p><p>There was no reason to worry. It wasn’t like Megatron would let him fall. </p><p>Rodimus was unsure what <em>exactly</em> he'd done, but he had certainly done it.</p><p>Whatever it was.</p><p>He supposed that was a question for a less oil-drenched time.</p><p>Situated on his chosen perch with spoiler fins excitedly tilted upward, the Prime held the newly-awakened round creature aloft for the audience to see. The Camiens erupted into wild cheers and applause as the bright orange light from the forge reflected off of the creature's body.</p>
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<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Chapter 33</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The audience had already filed out of the foundry via the entrance tunnel, spilling out onto the temple grounds to dance and sing among the few lanterns placed around the grounds by staff. Megatron could already hear some of the music get underway, but it was quieter than last time, or so it seemed. It was faded, like the lingering sensation of heat on his palms from where he had held onto a squirming speedster that had decided to use him as both a ladder and a platform. At times Rodimus truly seemed to have no shame. Getting him down safely and with propriety had been… a trial unto itself.</p><p>Maybe the damped sounds of rejoicing were simply due to the distance and the fact that he was slightly underground. Standing in the middle of the workshop next to the Mistress of Flame, the captain had thick layers of carefully cut stone between himself and the source of the revelry. It might have also had to do with his somewhat damaged hearing. More likely, he thought, it was due to some… ambivalence the locals were probably feeling about the outcome of the trial.</p><p>Rodimus had <em>technically</em> succeeded. Technically.</p><p>Succeeding at performative divinity on a technicality was probably not going to exactly endear one to a worshipful populace. Then again, Rodimus had made something far more… interesting than a mere sword. It was difficult to check the pulse of an unfamiliar populace with unfamiliar customs. From the cheering that had echoed off the foundry walls earlier, it did seem that, even if “Star Saber” wasn’t <em>exactly</em> what was promised, Rodimus had already wormed his way into at least a number Camien sparks with that beguiling—<em>no—determined</em> charm of his.</p><p>The Mistress of Flame had thought it worthwhile to keep Megatron back in the foundry, along with his designated babysitter, while Rodimus and the strange creature that Prowl had pulled from the oil went off with their own escort to get cleaned up for the night’s festivities. At first, the speedster had resisted, with <em>colorful</em> unprintable vocabulary, being separated from his co-captain, for some reason. However, after some soothing words from the priestess that Prowl would not be unsupervised, an exhausted Rodimus had finally allowed himself to be lead away from the workshop by the four remaining, unoccupied Torchbearers of this particular unit.</p><p>So here Megatron was, arms crossed tightly across his chest while he waited for that blasted high priestess to explain what he was still doing here. </p><p>All with that particularly broad Torchbearer, named Heatsink given what the Mistress of Flame had called them, “standing guard” over him a few paces away. </p><p>As though he needed the minding. Megatron was more than capable of policing himself. He scoffed at the thought as Prowl splashed around in vain. More likely than not, there wasn't anything more to be found in the vat. At least the the commander’s pointless struggle was momentarily entertaining. In the captain’s <em>humble</em> opinion, Heatsink ought to be more concerned about Prowl, who seemed determined to interrupt whatever sacred rituals pious Camiens held dear.</p><p>In truth, Megatron wasn’t sure what to make of the events that had transpired. He cautiously watched Prowl, who had lingered behind, furiously dig around in the vat of quenching oil with his non-dominant hand. It was like the paranoid commander was looking for something to explain what happened, some secret or trick. At least he had the sense to not stick the hand that was still bleeding into the liquid. That would only aggravate the injury and contaminate his fuel lines.</p><p>Tonight’s trial had been… eventful, to put it mildly. Sacrilege against an ancient artisan craft had been committed. Megatron had been scaled like a ladder and used as a display platform for Rodimus and the weird mechanimal that had suddenly materialized in the quenching oil. Prowl—and that unlucky Torchbearer near the commander—being bitten by that borderline indescribable horror.</p><p>It had been a miracle that Rodimus hadn’t hurt himself beyond overheating a little bit. The fool hadn’t even really aggravated his recent wrist injury. <em>Somehow.</em> Maybe it was the extra layers of sturdy sub-plating patching Megatron had soldered on when fixing the wrist the <em>second</em> time. That mech was a hazard to himself. For the speedster’s continued wellbeing alone, Megatron was thankful. Anything else was secondary to that. He breathed a sigh of relief, just the latest in the series he had breathed since the audience had left.</p><p>"Since you claim to be a physician, Prime Consort-Protector," the Mistress of Flame said, interrupting his silent musing.</p><p>Megatron felt his jaw clench shut at the priestess’ calm, matter-of-fact voice, a familiar frown making itself at home on his face. She stood a number of paces away from him, lingering by the workbench with her staff. Only now did Megatron notice that the top of that ever-present staff was shaped like the head of a hammer. </p><p>
  <em>Fitting.</em>
</p><p>That title she foisted upon him was an absolute mouthful and bore with it much baggage. Titles were a pointless holdover from a barbaric time on Cybertron. Even “Prime” had lost a lot of its meaning, but here on Caminus…. Though somehow he found minded this new title less, cumbersome as it was, than the one he had previously held. After taking control of Kaon, he’d been forcibly ennobled. Ancient, arbitrary laws inadvertently had made a noble lord out of a former slave. One bizarre upside in the destruction of their planet was that he had been able to shed, at least officially, the decadent, unwanted title of Lord of Kaon when Kaon ceased to exist. Better to be reminded of someone whose company he enjoyed, he supposed.</p><p>No matter. </p><p>"I've asked you remain in hopes that you might able to assist those wounded in the course of the trial."</p><p>There were more important tasks to attend to than to mentally disappear into the inescapable black hole of memory.</p><p>“If I must.” Not that he was opposed to assisting, so much as opposed to being <em>told</em> to do so. Even if couched in the social veil of a request, it was still an order. Megatron had long since sworn off taking orders, especially ones based on his assumed function, even if this is one he chose for himself.</p><p>Holding his hand out, palm flat to show he meant no harm, he cautiously approached the winged mech that had been "volunteered" to fetch whatever Rodimus had made. The least he could do was offer aid to the unlucky Torchbearer who had gotten themselves bitten by Rodimus' creation. Megatron felt, somehow, at least partially responsible. Then again, as far as the Camiens were concerned, he <em>was</em> the seemingly legal partner of their reincarnated god… and therefore probably liable for damages incurred by said “god.”</p><p>The unlucky mech nodded assent for treatment and held out their hand. After unhooking the kit from his right arm. He pulled the soldering gun out of the top, not thinking it was necessary to unroll the entire thing just for a quick patch.</p><p>Heatsink could be heard stalking along behind him, keeping as close to his heel as they could without either getting stepped on or risking catching an elbow if he turned sharply. While Megatron had never had much by way of a personal space bubble, this guard was beginning to convince him that he ought to develop one.</p><p>Maybe keeping busy would let him distract himself from the feeling of warm thigh plating under his palms from stabilizing Rodimus earlier. The feeling had yet to fully fade from his sensory memory even if it was physically long gone from his palms.</p><p>“What are you called?” he asked, holding up the injured servo in his right palm to inspect it. Some small talk would help, he thought. In the that other universe, he had always made it a point to know the names of the mechs he treated. It was a minimum level of dignity that everyone deserved.</p><p>“Updraft, sir.”</p><p>He felt Heatsink looming just off to the side, the air unnaturally cool where they stood. Whether to make sure he didn’t do anything or out of concern for a member of their unit, he couldn’t be sure. A growl rose in his throat as he turned his head to the side, throwing the Torchbearer a glare.</p><p>“Step back,” he snapped.</p><p>Heatsink didn’t so much as budge.</p><p>“<em>Patient privacy.</em>”</p><p>With that he was granted three paces of breathing room. It looked like that would be all he was going to get. Megatron shook his head and went back to inspecting Updraft’s palm.</p><p>The wound was a very minor puncture wound, hardly more than a pinprick. It was the sort of injury that was more startling than actually dangerous. Servos and hands tended to bleed more than other components due to the density of sensors that needed to be protected. Of course, there had been no reason for Updraft to have suspected they would get bitten by whatever Rodimus had tossed into the quenching oil. Prowl could still be heard splashing oil to the floor while looking for nothing in particular.</p><p>“Well, Updraft,” he said, holding the soldering tool to the wound with his left hand, “it looks like you should make a full recovery with no complications.”</p><p>The tool heated and flashed sparks as he closed the leaking line and the mesh-lined plate over it. If the young flight-frame had simply put some pressure on the line, it would have healed itself before long even without Megatron’s intervention. All the same, it was refreshing to patch up someone other than Rodimus for once. The fool kept aggravating his sprained wrist—Megatron could only imagine the sort of patching he would have to do to that arm before the night was through after all of that hammering. Sure, it was reinforced and not leaking, but it would need yet another look over. Just in case.</p><p>“Just don’t do anything strenuous with this hand for a couple of days—"</p><p>“Prime Consort-Protector.” </p><p>Megatron took back his earlier generous thoughts that it wasn’t the worst title he had ever been given. The voice of the priestess was like velvet, smooth and soft, but something was… wrong with it that he couldn’t <em>quite</em> name. It was either the threat of a hidden agenda, or the promise of one.</p><p>The Mistress of Flame’s detached, saccharine voice sounded like she hadn’t moved from her post by the worktable, as though she still hadn’t wanted to approach. When Rodimus was present, she seemed to not mind so much, but without the exuberant firebrand…. It was almost as though the supposedly pious mech viewed him as some sort of threat. Perhaps she <em>had</em> talked to Starscream at that stupid ego club—“Council of Worlds”—that pretended to be a governing body.</p><p>“<em>Yes?</em>”</p><p>Silence. Apparently that wasn’t the correct response.</p><p>He grumbled something rather less than polite under his breath, causing the mended Updraft to snicker while he carefully tucked the soldering tool back into his kit. The Mistress of Flame probably wanted him to treat Prowl. Not likely to happen. Not that Megatron would have <em>refused</em> to treat the commander, but that Prowl would likely have <em>objected</em> to the treatment. As was his right.</p><p>When he finally turned to face the priestess, equally unwilling to cross the distance to accommodate <em>her</em>, Megatron was met once more with that hollow smile. The more he saw it, the more he <em>detested</em> it.</p><p>“Yes?” he tried again, with a little less blatant irritation.</p><p>Her right hand hiked up higher on the staff she bore as her smile stretched.</p><p>“Oughtn’t you attend to our Cybertronian <em>guest</em>?”</p><p>The splashing and swearing from the oil vat ceased. Megatron saw Prowl frozen in place in his peripheral vision.</p><p>“No, no, the commander is in fine health.” Despite missing an eye, being chronically low on recharge, and generally being a meddling, cantankerous aft. “My professional recommendation would be to rub some dirt in it.” </p><p>And maybe clog a line in the process. That would be convenient. </p><p>Megatron was unlicensed and as a result had taken no medical oaths.</p><p>“What a fortuitous prognosis,“ the priestess cooed, while Prowl grumbled incoherently.</p><p>Good. </p><p>Now he could get out of here and get back to stopping Rodimus from hurting his damn fool self. With a curt nod, the captain turned to go. The sound of Heatsink’s armor was audible as they mirrored his path. Apparently he wasn’t rid of the Torchbearer quite yet.</p><p>“There is <em>one more thing</em>, Prime Consort-Protector.”</p><p>He halted in his tracks, tension building in his shoulders and neck at the aggravation. Is this how Rodimus felt whenever someone addressed him as “Prime”?</p><p>“<em>What is it?</em>” </p><p>“In a few days’ time, there shall be an expedition.”</p><p>The wet splatter of oil made it sound like the commander had at last pulled his arm from the vat.</p>
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